April 24, 2026
There's a time machine and sets of red thread I need in order to go back and start this day over again. I need only to redo a day and a half.
The lathe begins threshing the fabric of spacetime itself to accumulate massive amounts of power in very little time. Chunks of dull gray goo are spat out. The thread itself unwinds, pointing at the past.
I allow my essence to stretch toward the metaphysical machine, my selves pulled up into the noosphere and swirling about, patterns shifting and moving turbulently.
The sense of time moving in reverse is surreal. There are spark lights surrounding my patterns, bits of data of a type I'd never seen before.
The movement slows. Stops. In the noosphere, my patterns drift down and coalesce as an extra set of memories overlaid on top of the me of thirty-six hours ago.
With a jolt, I awaken.