Timmy lay under the table, pondering... He knew he wasn't himself anymore. But who was he? What had happened to him? Was he now the person he had wanted to be? Had his wish somehow been granted? And what were the consequences of that?
Who was he now? Was that better than being no one at all?
Trying to go out of his world was harder every passing day, and each attempt was less and less successful. All of this was reinforced by his new mental rules: now he could only speak exactly three and a half sentences per day, and look at exactly five people in the eye, and consider the idea touching thirty-five different objects at most, of which then he could pick only twenty (which, if you think about it, is an extremely low upper limit for someone who intends to live, eat more than one meal a day, maintain a certain, even if small, amount of hygiene and perhaps, enjoy reading for a bit, if you take into account the fact that different pages counted as different objects, which of course he did).
Was he getting closer to his goal? Did that mean the world, the real world, would grow further and further away from him?
Was it worth it? In this world, he wasn't anyone, but still, was it a world he could afford to wave goodbye to? Maybe if he could count on— No. That would never haver worked, as much as the six of them had tried.
And so he was alone in the pursue of something more, of something better, but in that same pursuing he was leaving this world, trying to walk above the mist of the night, always finding small reasons to carry on, but never actually sure that he was right.
Timmy wasn't Timmy anymore, that's the only thing he knew.
