And as it hurtled around and around, Kaa’s digitized simulacra dreamed a dream that had no discernible beginning or end.
He appeared to tumble through a black void, and as he fell, thin objects fluttered all around him, like leaves, only rectangular. And white. There was an endless supply of them. And they flicked past him so quickly that he couldn’t tell one from another. There was no pattern to their coming and going, no repeating shifts in their density or direction. It was all perfectly, horribly random, which was why he couldn’t tell the past from the present or the present from the past.
No end.
No beginning.
In other words, a loop.
Out of desperation, he fumbled for the flaps of his third eye and peeled them back. He looked inward, hoping for a glimpse of something he recognized. Even his worst nightmare was preferable to this.
But the view inside was the same as the view outside: a timeless black waste, millions of sheets of paper whipped by a silent whirlwind, and Kaa, falling.
The End