“Good thing we’re limited by our imaginations and not theirs, then,” Gwenaëlle says, standing beside the mirror, clearly weighing whether or not she should outright remind him that the next step is literally stepping, or take pity on him and say she’s going first, or just haul him through and see how that goes. “If we stopped to consider how impossible most of what we achieve actually ought to be more often than we do,”

more than none, less than they should,

“we’d get fuck all done, probably.”