Sometimes, when the strands of time forever winding and unraveling in his mind grow so haphazard, so confused, that he feels as though he's staring into the Infinite Schism again – all of time before him, wild and ridiculous and untamable – sometimes past and present and future and everything in between meld and mix until what was is what will be and what hasn't is what is. And he feels as if he knows everything and nothing, like all the answers are before him but completely out of reach. The feeling flees as soon as it comes, but it never comes in anything but the strangest ways, this knowing. A scarf, a stranger, bow ties or sunflowers, a ginger, his old young faces, a stetson without a bullet hole. Any small thing that he knows though he doesn't know why, any tiny piece of could-have-been that keeps telling him time can be rewritten. That time is being rewritten, every day, every second, and maybe those strange moments from strange things aren't the moments that time confuses him, but the moments that he almost, nearly, barely understands it.
TARDIS-blue diaries and cracks in the wall and paradoxes and blown-up fezzes and gingers and spoilers. He falls through the Vortex and doesn't care that it will never make sense.