Everything there is is infinity. And Time-and-Space is the framework to process it through phenomena, as phenomena. Time-and-Space construct the difference. One thing is not the other: some space chunk is not the other. This room is not the same as it was yesterday: the room stayed, space stayed, but some parts of it may have changed. The possibility of change and change itself is the difference brought by time. What a difference leaves inevitably is a door to nothing. The door is sealed and is nothing more than paint on the wall now, but it is there; we know it because it was previously a door to a possibility. There is a difference between what could have been and what there is, that difference is what was previously the difference between possibilities, but now it is the difference between everything and nothing.

It is like traveling through the infinite sequence of rooms, through doors. There is an infinite choice of what door to travel to; the doors are infinite in each room. But, once you choose one, you cannot get back. You travel to the new room and always see something there. Yet, you know for sure that the rooms you did not choose have (no) nothing in them now; precisely because you did not choose them. You also know that the door you just left behind and the door that you have not yet chosen have (no) nothing in them as well now. Nothing is lurking all around in the blind spots. Even if you tried to catch it, bending the rules, and traveled to two different doors at once, the reality would rather let you show you two contradicting possibilities (like with the cat), but not nothing. Never.

What is nothing then? It is not finite, not infinite, not anything really; it is just not. (Although I understand why somebody might think that it is infinite. The problem with that is conceivability: infinite is partly (and only partly) conceivable. Nothing is not.). The problem here is that to attempt to speak of what is behind that sealed door would not be nonsense (as somebody might think); it would just be a failed attempt to speak of it because language is bound by sense, and no sense is possible of nothing (we always sense something). We have a memory of nothing, though. It is the very first one, or rather, just before that. Since we were nothing once (we should not forget that fact), we can remember.