Withdrawal of my words from your memory could help me deceive myself. I don’t always give in to desperation. But today, interference seems to have more gravity than how I should just be a spectator. If I don’t, I’m just a puppet of principles, fearing which I’d rather barge into the sacred hall of hell and rescue my ball of fire, let it know it could be polymorphous. I’d rather experiment. I’d rather live and learn. I’d rather try, at the very least, to alter the consequences. Than waiting outside the gate. Than watching my words being cross-reacted to form a different race of devil. Than reassembling the ashes after the explosion.
Or you could just give me my words back.
P.S. Assume it’s a straight line.