I don’t want to become Francis Dolarhyde. Although we share a similar background, I am not him and I don’t want to be him.

This is the first time in twenty years that I’ve seen her. I felt her distress, her sadness, and her anger. It wasn’t a black box, but a white one—a partially transparent white box, through which part of the sunlight could pass. But does that make any difference? No. Inside, things still run in the same way. Only this white box has six sides of double-faced glass: the mirror side shattered, the glass side still unyielding.

I can find reasons to comfort E and S. But her—she is still there, and I don’t know what to do, what I could possibly do to salvage all this intangible loss. I don’t even know how to get her out of the box. I see no entry point. None. I watch as the colors inside fade into gray and black, choking smoke, but I am powerless. How to comfort her—I have no idea. I cannot even touch her.

When I talk to people about certain things that go beyond ordinary understanding, they don’t comprehend and instead think I am foolish, dangerous, full of excuses.

I cannot change the environment, nor can I change the cognition of others—I can only change myself. But sometimes I just want everything to stop. Hope feels unreachable, and I am too exhausted.

[Dynamic Reversal of Structural Entropy Flow?]