Once upon a time, tucked into the covers of night, you turned your eyes towards the moonlight, tilted your head, and smiled.
Could you have recaptured that moment, you would've completed yourself. Now this voice tells you: to go back into the past is to loop unto yourself, a self-devouring Ouroboros. Now your regret is tied to a stake that is the head of the straightest arrow, a glance thrown backwards, a sliver of hand out the window consumed by faceless horizon. The view zooms out, and all you see: desert vistas, amongst the dance of crumbling skyscrapers.
Road signs point towards empty space. Confetti plastic strewn along concertina wire.
Your heart picks up. This building used to be a library. You pick up the book on the floor, "...regurgitation, the mitral valve fails, blood can flow in the wrong direction...", mutters the first line on the second page. Your eyes flee those words as your heart skips a beat. You turn the page.
But you cannot turn the page back.