I tell myself stories in the dark, Anya.
It helps. Or maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe it makes things worse. Or keeps everything the same. Which is a different kind of worse.
It is scary once you realize that the past can be changed, and that the future is fixed, a rigged absolute. Knowing that changes everything.
And what about the present?
For some the present is intolerable cruelty, unimpeachable company.
For others it is a mirage, a raging gag.
And still for others it is a solution, a salvation. The one and only true salvation.
I splinter echoes, and marvel at the nearness of sound.