God, a silent part of him yells, it isn't Papyrus fault. Of course it isn't! None of this is his fault, but why won't these thoughts go away? Keeps gnawing at his mind at unexpected times, and the longer he lays here the worse it seems to get.

It's as overwhelming as struggling with a real, physical force. Except all it would take is one little push to get him to shortcut, and he knows it.

"I can't get it out of my head," he says, the edges of his tone beginning to sound like he's almost pleading. He shakes his head, closing his eyes and bracing his hands over his ear holes and curling up on his side. It feels like a surging wave of panic is just beginning to ease, like his ability to speak is abruptly returning. "Something's wrong with me, bro. I don't... I don't know what's going on."