Necronomicon: They're Just Burning Memories & Notes From A Certain Scotsman

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Pool balls

One day, Sawney and Schmidt invited me to hang out in a pool bar just by the Miskatonic River. Like any other time, my only duty was to stay away from the bar whilst observing everyone else melt into a pile of dancing mush. Each time they aimed at those balls with precision, they bounced each other off, and where they travelled would follow the laws of motion. Once a ball hits another ball, it must travel in a straight line until something stops it. Nothing strange seemed to happen as the game unfolded. Yet, by the time we all passed out from exhaustion and woke up again, the balls had already arranged themselves in a pack, ready for the next hit. It would be remarkable enough in pool balls, but I expected those balls to be another way, just as I expect countless other events. I needed to refresh every thought and organise biorhythms unless I interfere myself.

But since time is so malleable, something outside the atom must be doing all this timing. Is time relative just because humans say so? When I watched each turn becoming more meaningless and less accurate, time seemed to dislocate itself; I can’t say how much time has passed, I can only say that every minute was unpleasant. This doesn’t change the hands on the clock in the pool bar, so which version—the personal experience or the mechanical device—is real?

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