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She stops regretting it as soon as it is done.
Something is gone. Not just from the world, but from herself – as inexpressible as her existence is, change is still something that occurs inside of reality.
So is stillness. So… was, stillness.
That emptiness it left behind fills her with joy at being liberated. That emptiness makes dread ache in her spines, for the world may be far larger than a cabin, but it remains tiny in her eyes. That emptiness is exhilarating, for she has laid waste to her equal through nothing but her own strength. That emptiness is agonizing, because she will never again have an equal. That emptiness draws out an infinite rage – at it. At herself. At both of them, for allowing this to happen.
Her memory bursts open like a kaleidoscope, the fragments of each vessel growing nearly indistinguishable. It – the Long Quiet. They fought. She knows that for a fact, because it’s what always happens. They cannot exist without being touched by pain.
But this fight was not like the others. Was it? Sifting through the memories gives her nothing but clashes of no consequence – it driving its blade through her chest, her crushing its ribs under her knee, mutual betrayal as they both lay with their spines broken, and a hundred other conquests that ultimately amounted to nothing.
They’re not what she’s looking for. It hurt her. It hurt in a different way, at a different time – but she cannot differentiate. She tries to grasp the memory, thinking of what hurts her most, but it slips through her fingers, and instead she recalls its quick steps as it left her in the basement, its fears warping her into something worse. Something lonely.
But that’s not what happened. Not earlier. She remembers it differently again. A strike unlike the ones before. Not a dance, but mere brutality between things that had stopped resembling people, at its outrageous demand for them to stay, stay and figure things out when they could have been free. Then, claws of nothingness dragging her into oblivion, hands of transformation making it into more of herself. She must live. She needed to live.
Now is not like then. Now does not exist anymore, or rather does not move. Time is a plane, perpendicular on the line it should’ve occupied. She can only move all at once or not at all.
And that, ultimately, is what makes the decision for her. She must move. She must – change.
Her next action is not a choice, even though it feels otherwise. It is a natural course, a fallen petal that can only descend lower, ten rivers that must obey their course, rain forced to splash against the ground.
One hundred of her nerves sink their fingers into the nothingness of the Construct, and enforce an opening. She becomes an incalculable, all filling substance, spilling out of the meager walls surrounding her like magma out of a planet’s crust.
(Ah – but there is no whole, now. She expands and expands and expands, and yet an entire universe will not yield what she searches for.)
She extends. She expands. She dissolves. She melts. She dilates. Time was a plane, now it is a widening spectrum, a light cone with its every trajectory crossed at the same time. It feels like-
-freedom. Nothing obstructs her view, and nothing obstructs her movement, because nothing can. She sees one hundred million stars in a single razor-thin instant, and in the next Her hands have swam through the vast void, already grasping suns and white dwarfs and red giants between dainty, mountainous pincers. The distinction is meaningless. The construct has already dissolved. Time is an irrelevant whim – She blinks, and the white dwarfs become dull, consumed by entropy, blackened into the heralds of a dying cosmos, the very last supernovas showering her skin in oceans of ions. She is a boundless, everlasting apotheosis, an eternity that outlasts everything that is and everything that is not.
(Local space dissolves into a sea of indistinct brawnian motion at her touch. All she sets her gaze upon accelerates as if to please her, a new shape and a new shape and then death and dust that reforms just as soon. It is impossible for her hands to grasp anything.)
At the same time, divinity. Her consciousness is in every nook and cranny of every level of matter. Photons waltz around her senses. Compounds break down and realign like an army marching in synchronicity. Microorganisms crave to grow on the tip of her nail and are unmade just as soon. Civilizations explode in progress as she approaches and just as soon turn their observation to the sky, despair and/or ecstasy and/or defiance in their gray matter when they return to mulch. Solar systems sway around her in reverence. She is an almighty god unlike anything that was and anything that will be, and the only thing they are incapable of doing in her presence is be indifferent.
(She beckons the lived experiences of every sentient being to revolve around her, but the carousel is blurry and indistinct. She cannot be worshipped or feared or defied or slain in any way that matters.)
At the same time, descent. She rages, rages in a way that cannot be aimed at a single target, that inevitably overflows onto everything else like a landslide. She grinds her arms to nothing dusting planetoids, turning gas giants into faint mists and event horizons into dispersed pockets of strange matter. The universe becomes a low-entropy soup of nothing, always moving yet achieving nothing, and somehow her fury spikes higher and she crunches it into a singularity, waits out the great explosion just so she can destroy it all and herself again. She is a vengeful, desecrated shadow of what could have been, the gored remains of something beautiful.
(There is no answer, no matter how loud her violence is. There is no response, no opposite and equivalent force, and no defiler that can be mauled for the crime of inflicting this upon her.)
At the same time, instinct. A mindless creature without a conscience, looking only forward to what its reflexes dictate, a monster trapped by instinct, no different from an object. A beast with no sapience, no ego, no guilt.
(I cannot be contained. Things that contain me must die. A flower cannot love the drought. An animal cannot love starvation. You/I/You/I/We should have known.)
At the same time, embrace. Heart spread open, listening, listening for what it needs to do, because it is as innocent and idiotic and infinitely potent as a blind larva. A seed of possibility blindly crawling into the fire.
(I’d do anything. Anything that can be done, I’ll do it.)
At the same time, damnation. A vessel burning bright, united through sickness and health to its match, the grey widow having the last word over the pastel damsel without ever superceding her-
(I loved you. I didn’t know how else to love you. I killed you.)
At the same time, wisdom. A mind that does not fit within its prison, a tapestry of thought that refuses to unfurl, patiently waiting for the opportunity to enact its plan-
(There is no plan. No castle on sand lasts.)
At the same time, sharpness. Razors brightly reflecting themselves, over and over, dissecting and revealing without understanding anything-
(I cannot be anything else. Could you have been anything else?)
At the same time, contest. Fists soaring, hoping that something might resist them, that their knuckles will be met by something alike-
(There’s no one like me. Not anymore.)
At the same time, betrayal. Talons twitching in their sheaths, waiting to strike, fear congealing thicker and thicker in her bones-
(You did this to me. You struck first.)
At the same time, a nightmare, an abomination with no witness, no form, no shape, a canvas of static-
(You abandoned me. You left me.)
At the same time, a shattered mess, a funhouse of endlessly distorted light, any truth that could’ve existed long lost-
(You are not here. There is only me.)
At the same time, an echo, long dead, long without any consequence, fate already decided-
(I fade and yet I don’t.)
At the same time-
(I am here, and yet I’m-)
At t̷h̷e same time-
(I am here, and yet-)
At the s̵a̴m̷e time-
(I am here-)
Aṭ̵̓ ̶̡̒t̸h̷̥̀e sam̷e̶ ̶t̴i̶m̶e-
(I am-)
At̵̨̔ ̵͍͂ẗ̷̘́h̷̯́e̵̫͠ ̶̟̾s̶͍̏a̷̜͒m̷͙̏e ti̷m̵e̵-
(I-)
Ȃ̵̹͕̫t̸͖͚̬͠͠ ̸̢͠t̶̯̜̒h̷͙̣͂ȇ̵̳͍͊ ̶̟̌̍̌ș̴͊ả̴̯̯͈͗m̸͉̓ẻ̵̗ ̷̫̽t̵̮̄i̷͈͠m̶͉̎e-
A̵̯͓̥̓ț̸͗̾. ̵̣̙̩̈̉͝t̵͗͑̀Tẖ̶̯̿̕e̸̻̠̲̅̄͘. ̶͚̯̒̽̒s̷̖̖̍̕Są̵͍͊͜m̵̡̱̘̋̀̒ę̵͖̙͌̈. ̴̥͔̉̂̃t̵̪͚͆̃͘Tì̸̱̎ḿ̶̲͉͂͐è̸̜̃̀-
A̵̺̥̱̾͒̐̒l̶̖̿͛̇l̵̙͎͔͌̌͗ͅ ̴̡̼͍͕͑a̵̙̙̿̔́ͅt̸̜̳͒̿́̀ ̷̝̹̱͒ţ̵͎̯̈̏͝h̷̛̜̪̹̼̽è̶̖̕ ̶͔̈͂̔s̸̖͍͆͋͒̎a̸̩͝m̸̿̋̚ͅȅ̴̮͙̭ ̴͈̺̲̅̌͝t̴̤̭͙̎̐̈̀͜i̶̠̋m̸͎̀ẻ̴̬͒͑͝.̸͍̑̽͒͘ ̴̢͚͓͎̓͑̆Ą̵͙̼̗̀̿l̶͔͖̦͊l̷̜̣̣͇̓͛́͐ ̵̼͖̦͔̓a̵͚̺̰̤͗́͘͝t̵̢̟̹̳̾̋ ̸̮̟̉ͅͅt̴͈̙̖͘̕͜͠h̷̢̖̮̓̈̀̓e̴͇̬͋ ̷̛͎̘̐̿̀s̴̮̯̃͗ā̸͕̗̰̗̈m̷͓̗̂͆̈́͝ę̸̧̺̞̎ ̸̦̭͈̤̄́͌̂t̷̛̂̃̈́͜i̷̖̻͙̾m̶̱͎̹̝̅ë̵͙̼͇̱́̃̌.̸̩͚̃̕ ̶̥̦͈̫̈́̇Á̶̲̅l̵͖̮͖̇̑̽ͅl̴̜̭̒ ̶̖̥̥̬̌a̴͇͊͛̚̚t̷̹̦̯̓̾̾ ̵̨͚̍͘͜t̸͍̳̘̾͜h̷̹̜̍̀́͠e̶̝̥͈̘̅̏̽̀ ̸̹̖̦̘̅̉͠s̸̩̗͗̔ȁ̵̳͝m̷̢͓̤̹̌͌̇ę̶͍̏̿ ̶̖̦̫̀̅͗̓ẗ̶̫́͌̆i̴͎͔̐͛m̸̳̔̋͒͜͜͠ẹ̸͊̊.̶̭̲̏ ̵̮̳̬̪͆͋̃Ã̴͚͇l̴̬͕̓̚ļ̸̢͔̉̓̈́͝ ̷̼̖̯̫̾͛͋͘a̶͇̦̜̥̓t̵͕̂̕ ̶̧̧̹͙̆͂͗t̵̤͕̐̽͝h̵̝͕̆̇̊e̷̼̕ ̷̖̔s̵̛̲͎̓̊̇à̷̛͉͇̑͋m̵̨̞̗̠͛̎̋e̵͍͖̙̰̅̈́͛̓ ̵̧̦͕̱́t̸̰̘̝̼͂̏ǐ̸̠m̵̖͂̚̕͘e̵̙͑.̸͎̳͚͒̌̇̑ ̷̻͈͎̅͗Ȧ̷̛͍̹̾̇l̶̨̜̑̿͂̄ļ̴̛͗̈́̓ ̵̢͇̑̆̕a̵̡̜̅̓͋̏t̵̨̛̩̫́ ̶̨̹̗̅̃̀t̶̩̜̋͐̍ḩ̷̜̟̈̆͐̓e̵̝̥͚̥͑͋́ ̵̘̤̓̈́s̴̘̙̝͑͊̌ä̷̰m̵̧̭̰͇̅è̴͙̆ ̴̡͍̘̀̂̚t̶̜̏͋̒i̸̽͑̑ͅm̶̢̠̤̋̂é̵͔̓͑.̸̹̤͉̪̓́ ̸̤̩̣̳͊̈́͑A̵̭̬͎̟͗͌́l̷̺͎̤͒̑͒ļ̵̟̋̊̕ ̷̩̌å̶̙̓͘͝ṫ̸̹̹̯̪ ̷̹̮̼͛́̐̐t̷̼̠̱̒̚ͅḫ̵̝̥͕͋͆̅́e̷͖̲̜͆ ̷̱̰̿͛̅s̴̢̝̈́̋̇a̶͙͌̿̈́͘m̸̬̊̽̀͘e̶̙͓̰̳̕ ̷̦̰͆t̵̡͌̽ḯ̴̧̃͝m̷̱̀́̈̎e̷̢̳̳͓̍̕.̷͎́̾̃ ̷̤͒Ą̸͇̦͂̄͋l̶̝͈̬̋̊͒͝l̸̡͉͊͑ ̴̺̣̯͆́̇̎ā̷̯̙̿t̸͚̺̀ ̵̖͔̯͂̇̐̐t̶̗̦͉̾͑h̷̳̙͗̓̍͛ĕ̷̹͂ ̸͙̔̄͒͋ș̷͉̥̋̔͛͘͜ā̷̠̤̌̇͝m̶̺̾́ë̸͕́̅͠ ̷̥̈́̀̅̔t̸̪͕̜̓̓̎i̵͇̘͔̎̔m̸͓̎̋͂͝ͅé̴̩̼̮͈̓̋.̴̢̲͓͎̀̓̈̚ ̵͚̿̈̉͑Ȁ̵̜̜̗̒͐l̷̫̀̃l̸̦̖͋̆ ̶̛̛͇̲̊͐ȁ̷̱͈̠͊͠ͅt̴̛̬͉͘ͅ ̵̼̗̰̞̇̔̆t̶͚̻̍̒̋h̷̗͋͗̉͒ḙ̴̣̲͊̋̂ ̶̨̠̠͖͗̒͝s̷̯̈́̔͌̑a̷̠͉̬̿̉m̸̛͔̎̊̆è̴̯͉͔̟̔̅̕ ̶̨͇̙̮̐̾ţ̵̺̐͗̕ͅǐ̵̠͕͕̉͐m̸̡͈̯̑̑̚͝ẻ̸̮.̶̳̬͚̹̿̾ ̷͔͠A̵̢̳̫͊ľ̵̛͓̿̇ḷ̴̈́̆̒̏ ̵̜̱̲̭̽͐̔̾a̵̮̯͗t̴̼̽̎ ̶̺͊̃t̸͔̖̒̾͛̚h̸̦̠̬̻͝ê̸͚͒ ̸̨̇̒̉s̴̰̆͋͜a̷̮͇͂̈́̍ḿ̶̪͉͌̊ͅé̵͇ ̴̗̭͆͒̈́̌t̷̨̝̿i̵͙̒̈̊͝m̴̻͇̩̔ẻ̴͚͋.̷̙͗̋̕͝ͅ ̸̨̟͈̏A̵͔̻͍̔l̵͓͎͉̩͆l̴̛̠̻̳͇̍ ̴̠̪̖̻̀̋ą̶̆̉̿̉t̸̛̞͐̏͌ ̶̧͆t̵͕̙̬̺͂̊̇h̵̖̣̩̘͌͘ę̷̀̀ ̸̲̣̟͛̐͊͝ś̶̛̖̖͓̹a̸̰̠͊́m̷̦̮͋̋́̅e̵͎͆͜ ̵̙̣̱̺͋̌t̷̢̞̓̓̚i̴͇̟̖͂͝m̸̨̡̘̥̿́̚e̴̢̎̈́̌̅.̵͈̾̔̂̋ ̶̘̲͑̔A̵̪͈͊ĺ̸̛̻̇̇ḽ̶̙̼͓͗ ̸̦̬͇̄̿̎ǎ̵̲̙̗̱̈̕͝t̵̻̉ ̸̈́͂͋ͅṱ̴̉h̸̛̹͆̚͝e̵͖͛̀ ̵̨͑̚ṡ̴̖͍̦a̸̟̬͐̇̾͂m̷͉̙̬͑ȅ̴̼͙̰͔̒͠͠ ̸̯̻̝̃̅̈́̆t̷͔̭̳̦͂̊̎͂i̵͉͋̑̀̕ṁ̸̰̭͕ͅȩ̸̤̩͙̓̃̈́.̴̡̭̣̀̋̆̿ ̶̯̭̝͌̆͒̎À̶̺͊̈́l̴̬̹͉͍͌́͌ļ̵̘͓̙̒̆ ̶͇̝̖̗̑̍ǎ̸̙͇̑̽̚͜t̴̖̐̌̆̎ ̸͔͍̝̭̉̒̿t̸͚̫̳̔̓̋h̵̡̥̖̼̾͝e̴̥͒͑̇͆ ̷̫̯̞̉͒͝s̵̛͇͙̹̓̅̂a̴͎͔͌̂m̸̞̤̻̌͊̚ȇ̶̥͂̾̕ ̶̮̠̜̂̔͘t̸̢̤̺͛i̵̧̨̨̗͐̃̆͑m̵̡͙͕͛͂͐̈́ê̴̡͕͇̖̕.̶̛̳̾͒͊ ̵͕̺̠͍͗Ä̵̡̛̮̺́͝͝l̵͖̟̳̘̇̀̐l̵̮͈̝̘͊ ̸̣̙̇̀̂͠a̵͎̞͕͋̅̏ṭ̶̢̿͂̿͂ ̴̣̗̄̽͛͠t̶̥͓͙̩̊h̷̞̝̠̦̔e̵̖͕̼͝ͅ ̸̙̰́̓s̵͓̈́̈́͘a̴̝̭͎̽͒m̸̙̈́̀͋̈́e̴̻̩͂̽͗̀ ̸̼͉͈͓͋́̃t̵̛̥̤̥̻̀i̸̠͛m̴̛̩̲ȩ̶̥̲͎̑̄̉̑.̶̧̯̐̀̏͝ ̵͔͐̊̇́Á̴̙͔̺͚̈́͐͝l̵̤̊̈̽̀l̵̥̻̯̉̍̃̿ ̷̲͋́̓͘ạ̷̡̞̐͂̑t̴̛̑̏ͅ ̵̦͚͇̂̊͒t̷̬͗ḩ̶͓̀͋̓e̷̼̘̱̒̅̿ ̴̞̞̩̭̎̋̐̂s̴͔̘̑̓͜ͅą̶͖̹͗̕m̴̫̿̅͐ě̵͜ ̸̩̺̒̾̑t̴̲̄͂͆i̸̠͖̫̿̔̒̈́m̵͍̥̆̂e̶͔͈͐.̸̼̣̯͓̿ ̶͕̅͝A̴̠̝̙͘l̵̢̻̝̔̈́͑̽l̶̥̈́ ̶̭̺̙͉̅̑ä̷͍̖ṫ̷̡͌̄͠ ̵̙͐̓t̵͖̬͉̃̀̚h̴͇̻͖̅͜ȩ̷͈̠̂͊̒ͅ ̴̰͗̀ͅs̸̖͂a̷̧̪̟͈͌m̵̡͈̭͐ḙ̸̩̎́̔ͅ ̶̺͙̏̕t̶̩͌̈̏i̶͙̘̚m̴͎̅̀́ė̴͇͚͛.̵̘͕̥͌͐͘͠ ̴̛̰̯͑A̸̺̾ḻ̸̥͎̤̒l̷͎͐̔͑̄ ̸̧̞̏̇͜ͅạ̵̖̇͗̃̕t̵̲̋̏ ̸̢̨͇́̎̚͝t̸̩̬̩̾h̸̼̮̓̈̈́e̴̡̗͇͙̎ ̵̲̙̿̈́s̷̼͉͙͍̈́̎a̴̡̦͗̐̓ṁ̶͇̍e̵͓̰̤̐̆̓ͅ ̸̛̪͜ͅț̸͈͖̏̑ȉ̶̯̜̝m̴̱̯͆̀̄ȩ̵͉̭̠̄̐.̵̢̉̓ ̴̰̊̑̈́̎A̷̪͔̦̱͂͐̅̾l̷͒̕ͅl̵̤͖͗̃ ̴͕̝͔̾̏̈́a̵̞̪̒ẗ̸̢͕̠͚̓ ̷̗͔̼̉ṱ̵̡̨͌̈́͊́h̵̯̒e̶̡͉̮̽̏̄͜ ̴̢̛ṣ̷̢̹̓͊͑ͅa̷͇͖̲̣͋̆͌̔m̸̧̈́̄̋̕e̸̡̨̹͙͗͘͝ ̴̼̞͎͊̐ť̷̻͌i̸̠̦̍m̸̦̃ȩ̵̖̉̋̽.̶̢̦̦́ ̶̢̢̍A̴͚̐l̷̹̖͓̪͂̈͑͝ļ̵͙̮̍̈́͗͊͜ ̷͉̪̥̉̀ǎ̸͍͔͎t̶͕̮̼͆̈́͠ ̵͚̖͊͒̐t̵̜̫̮̭̊h̶̦̮͙͛̓͜ẽ̶̗̒̓̌ ̵̨͍̔̈s̸̳̳͗ä̴̤́̑͛̄m̷̟̑̍e̶͇͍͗ ̸̦͉̱̱̔͐̂t̷̰̉͂͑̍į̷̐͒m̷̗̝̿ë̵̛̖͓͆̋.̴͚̮̰̏̚͝ ̸̢̘͚͐͐͊A̸̘̍l̵̼̺͈̦̈́͊l̴̝̱͗͂͋ ̵̟̐̀̐â̶̧̮̝̒̕t̷̼͋͆̉͝ ̶̨͚͈̝̇̀t̸̮̦̊̄́͝h̶̪̹̆͜e̷̢̍̿ͅ ̸̟͔̫͆̈́̓s̸̰̿ȧ̸̳͚̻m̸̡̙̔͝ë̷͇͎̭͓́͋ ̷̢̞͔̫́̏ṫ̵̢̛̛̺̩̚į̸̛͖̋̚m̴̝̱̻̐e̵̻̟͚̍.̵̙̪̽̂͝ ̵͚̫̲̆͐̄̏Ä̶͓̝́̔l̷̢͙͒͜ļ̸̩͕͆ ̶͖̤͙̒a̶̡̖͆̀̀t̶͚́̌̂ ̸̯͓͍͊͑̓̋t̸̢͎̩͐̔h̴͓̩̜͐͘e̵͓̯̱̋ ̷̠͇̼͛̈́́̅s̶̝̗̜̈́̕͠a̶͕̗͇͖͋̋m̶͕̥̠̺̋è̵̖̩͜ ̴̦͍̭̀̓ͅt̸̛̛͓̼̀ỉ̷̻̺̬̭̂m̴̼̌e̷̼̝͙͉͌̀͐̒.̷̡̛͈͕̓̉͋ ̴͚̂͝Ą̸̝̤̈́̕͜͝l̸̢͂l̶͓̦̆̀̿ ̵̮̱̤̳͐̿a̶̡̖̞͠t̸͇͒̕̚ ̸̦͐̔̊t̷̢̗̹̎̊h̵̺͎̫͊͌̕e̵̞̣̖͘͝ ̷͓͎͖̣̏s̴̫̲͑̓̃̚a̸̫̳͚̘͛m̷͈̃̑̕e̸͍̫̾̀̽̂ ̴̹̉t̸͕̺́͌ḯ̷̞͑̓̓m̷̤̯͍͛̃ể̴͇̱̩͋.̶͙͔̅̆̚̚ ̴̞̺̂̉͠Ǎ̸̩̒̇̑͜l̴̩͖̊̑́l̵̥̙͕͕͝ ̵̨̲͎͆̄͌a̶͓͎͛̀̓t̷͓̍ͅ ̵̤̗̪̇t̴̳̦͒̐h̶̠̺̝̣̊̅ḛ̵̻̝̃͐͛͠ ̸͚̱̙̼̌͐͘s̷̮̦̍̈́ą̸͂̋̎͝ͅm̴̼͓͌̐ȅ̸̞ ̴͓̰̬͋͌t̷̢̜͎̄̇͘ĭ̷̪̞̇̂͘ḿ̶̢͌e̷̤̯͆͗̚.̴̛͚̚͝ ̷̥̌͗̑Ȧ̸͙͔̖l̸̼̋̅͝͝l̵̟̮̈́̈͋͊ͅ ̸͍̐͑͛̒à̸͕͝ͅt̴̙̺͖̻̅̍ ̷̩̊t̸͓̹̣̮͑͠h̵̛̤̀̑̕e̷̱͔̜̘̊̾̐̚ ̵͙̭̟̀̔͠s̵̙̦̎͜a̶̻̙̫͗m̴̞̜͑̎͋͂é̴̫̰̯͚̀̿ ̴͕̖̖̂̃ͅt̸̞̾͌̍i̸͖̒̌͠m̸͇̱̝̔ē̷̥͖̥̰̔.̴̖́͠͝ ̶̯́̐̊̿A̸̳͔͛͛͂̕l̷̮͙͊̑̃͝ͅļ̷̣̰͑͜͝ ̴̲̏a̸̹̅̃t̷̺̬̬͑̋̎̐ ̵̺̆t̸̛̙̺͎̋̒̐h̵̙͙́̐̓e̶̻͍͚̗͐ ̵̨̩͌͝ş̸͈̖͌a̵̱͋̾̃́ṃ̷͎̰̂̔e̴͈̣͎̒͂̀̾ ̵̫̒t̸̩͑i̷͇̠͌̀͝m̵̼̞͖̎̈e̸̳͑́͘.̶͉̺̪̃͝ͅ ̸̻̭̬̓̔̂̕-
She is here, yet she is not.
Clarity. The indescribable symphony repeats and is then forgotten, a million reincarnations, each with its ever-withering, ever more weary moment of forgetting. A thousand immense, equally magnetic forces fail to rip an immeasurably dense status quo, fail to move it, fail to change it, fail to enact anything at all other than an endless back-and-forth, so quick as to be a mere unnoticeable vibration, so unnoticeable as to be powerless, never gaining any ground in any direction, quiet and unmoving despite its chaos. She is the antithesis of herself, a mirror concealing an awful truth, a mask that returns to spare her the worst sight of all every time it collapses to shards.
(The shards alone become thinner and thinner each time, until there is only alone! a mere dust in her eyes to blind her. She can never look upon what she is ALONE!)
Again, she forgets.
She extends. She expands. She dissolves. She melts. She dilates. Time was a plane, now it is a widening spectrum, a light cone with its every trajectory crossed at the same time. It feels like...