[All but squirming, miserable and half-hunched and jumbled into fragments where Cassel is a smooth barricade.]

I don't. I don't, okay, I don't know anything about - work, but I know what it looks like when someone's had bits of their soul rearranged, I know that. It's a different mechanism but it's the same, all the gaps and tells, there's nothing else that does that.

[That looks wrong like that. The parts don't add up to the whole. The present doesn't nestle into the past. The future wavers and meanders and lists back to the path it always should have been on, wounded, limping.]

I get that you really. Really don't want it to be true, I don't either, but I can't ignore it again.