The Followers were... something.
It was impossible...
Like a string of clichés that I am desperately trying to avoid, image after image flows past. This time not rushing. Why do they let me linger? And as well, they are outside my control. Mostly.
The other memories flash past, and when I grab one, the stream alters, and when I feel something - fear - or wonder. Then the stream alters again. Sometimes fast, some times slow. Some time... it's as if some memories keep the rhythm of time and others don't.
The Followers were different. Annoyingly child like. Other memories were photogenic - if that is the word - they appeared real. But the Followers were "cartoon like", as if they had not grown up.
It made me intensly uncomfortable to try to describe, to think too hard, about the images I remembered. Easier to dismiss them. No. Even that, if I am to be honest was not "easy". If I tried to dismiss the memories, I felt ever so slightly bad, as if I'd been told off by... by a parent? I'm not even sure I had one of those. Catch 22 it seems. Guilty if I ignore them, tortured if I don't.
One thing was certain, the Followers were coming, and I was to prepare for them. I resolved to discuss this with Lianne when I returned.