It's a fool's errand, really. We've been trying to gaze into the abyss of time for centuries, and all we get are scratched crystal balls and bad coffee shop poetry.
Take, for instance, the esteemed prophet, Nostradamus. "A plague upon the land, and the moon in the blood!" he cried, predicting the rise of Napoleon with all the accuracy of a drunk man in a crowded tavern.
And yet, we still try. We still attempt to divine the future, to grasp the slippery threads of destiny. It's a futile endeavor, to be sure, but someone has to keep the astrologers employed, right?