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Sometimes the future makes you want to vomit. Perhaps to scream. You feel sick to your stomach, like you're sinking, falling, collapsing. It is a cold feeling to understand its shape and scale as it stands before you, pitiless and blind, your grief but an atom within it.

You wish things could have been different. You try, feebly, to trace out different paths. Perhaps there was a different tradeoff one could have made. Sometimes this is an illusion. But, uncomfortably often, it appears true. Though the aggregate may be immobile individuals may move beneath it.

And so you can only suffer from the existence of other possible worlds. One may hope dearly that, if they can be said to exist, their inhabitants feel some gratitude for our failures.