I have too many feels. Let me curl up into a ball and cry a sea of despair.

Could have also possibly written this drabble-y fic a lot better too. But I'm still half-crying at this point so I'm going to be stupidly stubborn and just go along with it for now, harr harr.

Also my love for another game called The World Ends With You - or Twewy, if you want to shorten it down - is blatantly showing a little here. Well, if one has listened to its amazing soundtrack enough, yeah, it'll be obvious... heh.

Well, enjoy.

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("begin, hearts or spades or clover or diamond?") - a game of tragic consequences never played right.

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You play within the myriad worlds.

Like falling day-dreams, swirls of mystery trapped in fog. The hearts shatter and scatter - your hands reach out to grasp them, these broken fragments of colored glitter, but they all slip through your fingers like the sands of time.

When the wind settles, the pieces gone, you stare down at your hands, to the tiled floor. Your head is empty, your entire self is empty. Where the mind remembers, where the heart believes. Your memories are long gone, like stuffed away momentos lost and locked in an attic, but sometimes, in these pitiful moments of world passages, you like to think that you still managed to hold on to them. That not all hope is lost. That there is still a definite possibility that you can pick up the vanished pieces again, to put them back together into semblance of picture-perfect normality that will allow itself to become a past that never has been.

But, of course, the reality of logic sweeps by, forcing you up on your feet and pointing to the distance. An unknown hand shoves you forward - you stumble, look back, see nothing. There is only the invisible words, hanging by silver threads.

"Make your choice."

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You search, and search.

It is a curious game of strings, you consider it. A matter of delicate choices and careful tact to not let the truth slip too easily. You observe, you note - and you follow along. Discovery is key.

With humor, it's like a mystery novel. The beginning, where both nothing and everything is shrouded in fog, and as the days of the story pass, facts and illusions gather as per command and as planned by the ways of the puppet-master author. Ideally, everything comes together at the end, like the blooming of a magnificent desert rose under the pale moon.

But until then, the truth and twists are elusive goals. You'll have to be patient.

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You are not a gambler.

There is a sense of risk to those sort of games. Perhaps, before - you had enjoyed them.

But back then, it was because you still had something to gain, and just as well, something to lose. Now, it's a little different. You have nothing. Nothing to gain, nothing to lose. And to gamble on such frail conditions is to mark a fall into the abyss, where there will be truly nothing and everything, a stagnant pit of darkness that never allows for second chances - a loss.

Because while you may not like playing games, you still want to win.

You want to triumph over your despair, your doubt that cries in the back your head - I will never win.

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Time seems almost frozen at times.

The sun and the moon, the stars and hundred thousand celestials of the sky... you lean against the balcony railing, feeling the light breezes, musing idly that the skies' inhabitants seem to move too slowly. Maybe, they don't move at all. As if the world has stopped spinning and made day and night like the pulling of the curtains of light. You wonder if time has ever been present - in all honesty, it is only a concept created by humans to gauge the passing moments in defined seconds. Time may not truly exist. But people still desire it.

For without a sense of time, one is free. Too free.

And as such, they can get lost easily in the lapses of history. They are drowned in that lack of time. Lost in a spiral of endless and terrifying nothingness, and forgotten memories that are like fogged over rainy glass - and that may just be the case for you. A person who has lost themselves in time...

At the thought - you frown, eyes narrowing, looking ahead into another distant world.

You acknowledge it. That you are the unfortunate soul that has fallen into a sea of paradox time, drowning from the unseen worlds that taunt you for their beautiful futures, while you have none at all.

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You are a dreamer, looking for memories in the crannies.

Science speaks - dreams are mere recollections, sleeping fabrications born as the mind sorts and arranges the memories of past-times ago. It is fact, in the literal and logical sense. For the ones who desire to lose themselves in their dreams, they consider it very much otherwise. Those sort of people, are the sort who want to sleep and fall and discover another world and to stay in it if they so deem it perfect.

They are dreamers of the lost kind. Dreamers who gave up, couldn't find a place in reality to fit in, and so resort to the only place where they will be - dreams. A mythical, magical, most wonderful place for all, even to people who never dream.

-well, even if it is but a mirage. But that's fine, isn't it? Better than a lie. Better the truth being coated in honey syrup. It's less painful, more an ease to accept.

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Humans cannot accept anything and everything.

And neither can you.

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You step forward through the marble doors, the playing cards flying like spiteful ghosts in the sea of mist.

"Dear friend," the voice whispers hoarsely, a grin in malice. "Once more."

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("and here we part, beloved player - set down your wildcard and our game ends") - once, a foolish pierrot made a single wish...

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