This, this is where the world ends, the long dark drop into something that isn’t. Shadows, echoes, misty doppelgangers of a waking world, and yet… what is real? Butterflies and men and the tick tick tick of clocks that pull us back, away, that count the time in ways no other thing has bound itself with. Bands of time, bonds of time, tying us to now, and here, and hurry hurry hurry, because this isn’t real, just echoes, and you can’t stay too long in echoes.
But sometimes, when the echoes are all you have, who can blame you if you let the butterfly win?