I love reading books, such as Virginia Woolf's Orlando or Tim Robbin's Jitterbug Perfume, where characters live for hundreds of years. Not that aspire to such a fate myself, but it is amazing how easy it is to imagine such a state. Time is a slippery concept, a great deluder. I remember reading somewhere that Lord Byron's last mistress died of extreme old age in the late 19th century, after telephones came into use. That there could be a living connection between Byron and the telephone just boggled my mind! Then there are those best-laid human plans, intended to be endure virtually forever, that come crashing down with cataclysmic force; or those timeless creatures of nature, who would've probably lasted practically forever were it not for the shortsighted destructiveness of human kind (of course sometimes these two phenomena coincide. The BP disaster will hopefully not be one of those.) No doubt if we really did measure our lives in centuries instead of decades, our outlook and attitudes would be vastly different. There could be people around who would remember seeing living dodos, and maybe, even, there might still be dodos. Who knows?