Time distends, becomes bloated and awful. Your head hurts and the dashboard clock doesn’t make any sense as you step on the gas and have no idea of anything, the world seeming to flash by you at astronomic speeds though there’s a possibility you’re not moving at all. Time becomes a physical entity, a sickness. Time wretches. Your scroll of events unravels, ink bleeding through the parchment, important marginal notations becoming lost, sequence become anything but relevant. “I can see the bullet in my head, following it backwards but only to the muzzle of the gun and no further.” The amnesiac says, ‘you’re not 33 forever’ but can’t really guess what his own age is. Not accurately, anyway. Sequence. The amnesiac says, I can tell you the last thing I remembered, but I can’t tell you who killed that woman. “I know she’s dead now, and I know that before, she was alive, but I can’t tell you what happened in-between, though I know that something surely must have transpired.”