She hums, and nods again. Her eyes close, and she just drifts for a bit, listening to the sound of his breath and the lid of his lighter clicking open and shut, open and shut.

'Wouldn't it be lovely if we could say to them -- the dreams or the subconscious or what have you -- if we could say, "Thank you ever so much for the instant replay. I wasn't sure I got all the tiny details about the -- that moment -- the first hundred or so times, but I think I've got it now. Thanks ever so, please just stop."'

She doesn't raise her voice, but there's a certain bitter determination beneath the surface.

'I mean, it's not like it's helping, not in the least.'

She has all the clinical explanations for it, but they seem pale and thin in light of the truth.