First, it's like pushing through ice flows, funerial cold chaining his limbs. Then, it's volcanic tears under his skin, razing bones and soul with every inch. Still, Spike tries to touch the book. If there's a door, he'll chose it, Sartre be damned.
The text skitters worse than a first date, even after the opening spell. Frost-pattern fine web of prophesy refuses to settle. Words rearrange themselves, with as much predictability as wind-blown snow. Possible futures, and pasts, shift with tectonic grace.
He suspects that it's no longer the time between the tales--rather, that the new story has begun.