Here is the suspicion, and here is the worse one underneath it.
The first suspicion is that the world was swapped for a copy. Almost perfect, off by a degree, correct in every loop of the signature except the one that matters. The second suspicion, the one that arrives later and ruins sleep, is that the longing for the old world was installed at the same time as the copy, by the same hands, for the same reason. A leash made of nostalgia. You ache backward, and while you ache, you do not look directly at the seam, and not looking at the seam is the whole point of the ache. Even the doubt may be theirs. I doubt the doubt. Then I notice that doubting the doubt is also a move on a board I cannot see the edges of, and I stop, because the regress has no floor, and they know it has no floor, and they are counting on the dizziness to send me back to bed.
