The silhouette was illuminated by the glare of his screens. Five were arranged around the table so that he could see them all.
“No.”
He hit some keys and the sky returned to its standard blue colour.
“No. No. NO. NO.” His voice raised. His arm flung some papers aside. Almost immediately he regretted it and ran to gather them up, shuffling them in order.
Halfway through he stopped and slumped to the ground, sobbing quietly.
Everything was wrong. It was so obvious to anyone who looked. It was all wrong.
So he had studied Litrology. He knew his stuff – excelled in his class. And he knew how to apply it. Using it to re-write your own history. It was dangerous – but possible.
“But,” he reasoned…
But.
Suppose it could be bigger. He looked across at his collection of Jung books.
Suppose the collective unconscious could be rewritten.
Suppose he could make it better.
He got back in his chair. His eyes blurred as he stared at the screen. He couldn’t remember when he last slept.
He rubbed the last of his tears away and pinched the bridge of his nose.
He had to try.
His fingers found the keys and the reassuring tapping filled the room.
