"Visions?" Cloud repeats, trying to recall what exactly he'd seen in the bathroom. He tilts his head away from her face to think, but his arm finds its way around her shoulders. As he tries to recall the shape of what he'd seen in the mirror - rough-edged, faint, half-formed, no mouth, vague blocks of colour for hands - he squeezes a little tighter.

"I think I might have had one," he says. Now that he has a name to give to that incomprehensible, white flood of feeling, he has a way to begin to understand it. "I felt like - " he pauses, "this is embarrassing, but it felt like I was in some kind of red-light district in a surrealistic city. A city that didn't make any sense - a district the city didn't want. I went into a room with a girl, but all I found in there was the ghost I saw here, a ghost that looked like me."

There. He's said it. And it actually wasn't so bad - this whole conversation has been so weird that he feels he's gone beyond being judged.

"I've got enough to worry about already," he admits. "But if this is happening to everyone, I suppose I've gotta do something about it. You can't change anything by just sitting back and looking at it."