Our reasons for wanting a time machine ought to be banal enough to make us human, motivated by some memory that we recall imperfectly, stupidly, wrongly. To go back to that–for what? The smell of wet summer asphalt and feckless, drifting days. It...
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Our reasons for wanting a time machine ought to be banal enough to make us human, motivated by some memory that we recall imperfectly, stupidly, wrongly.
To go back to that–for what? The smell of wet summer asphalt and feckless, drifting days. It would be a waste of time, space, and whatever else. And so what? 

We ought to remember that to be human is to be banal, such that every so often, rising out of funk and dumbness, we are something else entirely and do not even know what.