Or, it's all fantasy, and the prediction and the confirmation of it are fantasy. In this case, another horror arises: how many times does the fantasy become reality? I shudder when I think that every repetition we realize may have been the successor of countless repetitions: the dark fantasy that overflows our dreams like a liquid, becomes reality, a reality without redemption. I gradually understood the choice of the protagonist: instead of admitting this reality, I would rather choose to live in an endless dream: at least every time I wake up with a smile and lament that it's all just a nightmare.
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