Somewhere in the world, at some point in time, there was a classroom with a window. Beside this window sat a boy, who stared upwards into the clouds, though his eyes saw nothing of the sky. His mind was fixed on another world, in another time, with a classroom much like his own, yet different. The tables were bonfires, the chairs were prisons, the books were onions that molted infinitely, and the teacher was a powerful emotion whose lessons consisted of indelible regret.
The boy visited this world whenever he had the chance, for he found it, at first, far more agreeable than his own. But one day he discovered himself, entirely by chance, sitting in a prison before a fire and an onion, witnessing a powerful emotion that taught him the meaning of regret. And he gazed out the window and imagined a classroom with books that were books, tables that were tables, and chairs that were chairs; and from that day onward the boy could never sort out which world was real and which had only been a dream.
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