My mind kalaeidoscoping the images of what could have happened. Nothing fits. None of them is quite right. My brain making countless variations, looking for that one, the right one, yet knowing that I have no way of knowing… and every new version is more unpleasant than the one before. Subconsciously, while doing everything else, it remains there, the colourful glass shards making new patterns again and again. Why am I even worried? I do not know.
And with the same kalaeidoscope that creates my voluntary dreams: my imagination. How… sick.
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