I peered into the future and saw Possibilities dancing in semi-reality like snowflakes beneath a stormy sky. But the one before us was clear as ice upon the frosted curved glass.
A madness has spread among the countless peoples of the world. A disease of the mind which makes it seem to the sick man as if they are made
of glass. A fragile thing, so frail and delicate they might break upon any but the softest impact. The afflicted, day and night, scream in fear
at any possible contact harder than the lightest touch. “I’ll break”, their blood-chilling screams echo through the empty halls of history.
The world has broken in this future like a music-box wound down to
silence. Men and women hide in padded chambers, for fear of breaking their porcelain forms upon a pavement or stones a toddler could step over.
A cure for the glass does not exist, save for a light tap to show the ill that they are more than they believe. Yet the sick would rather not be healed
than face the reality of their own resilience. The world cannot hurt you, my friend, but you yourself can hurt the world and shatter it like a crystalline snowglobe.