The black hole calls out to you.
You've been traversing paradox space for long enough to know how it works. It always takes you where you want to go, no matter how long it takes.
There are no dreambubbles that remain, and the path you follow leaves you here. Day after day, night after night. Each shard of reality that flies past you is a beckoning hand, a call of the void. A fiction that says, it would be so easy to follow.
A breeze envelopes you. It teases at the edges of your sleeves, fluttering the hem of your pants. But this breeze is a fiction too, in truth it is a manifestation of gravity herself.
Blurred streaks of blue raspberry, yellow cake, pink lemonade, black licorice fling themselves past you, excited to be brought in by the insatiable hunger of space. You consider yourself lucky you haven't been made to follow.
You haven't considered yourself lucky in quite a while.
"Like the sunflower,
I yearn to turn my face to the dawn
I am waiting for the day"