Your mind comes to pieces and the pieces tumble, sharp, spinning. Seconds come unmoored from seconds. Shards catch and reflect images of a once-familiar life: your past, spinning out of reach.
You have to fight back. Have to stop him. Defend yourself. So hard to think. What does thinking mean, anyway, outside of time?
You scramble amid the shattered, jagged facets of your self. They cut your fingers, and blood flows into memory.
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