Spiralling buns conjoined at the perimeter washed up to the shore in a melancholic way. They could not seem to care less about the thrashing cushions that they had left behind. That was their way of managing the staggering confusion in their Math books.
One day, the speaker had dreamt that he had to solve the dreariest of equations, by force. He was not allowed to forfeit, nor did he possess the means to ever solve it. But that did not fade it away. So he sat in an artificial daze to absolve himself of his charge. It was the best he could do, given his crooked limbs. The curtains then sidled up to his legs and reminded him of the soft agony of pending business. And he was apprehended as the spiralling bun he was destined to be ever so often.
Heroes came to him and reminded him of resolve and determination and other contemporary myths. They met his gaze and beamed their wisdom into his retina, and his will was left at their mercy. He would have croaked if they hadn't given him a sonorous tripper of a voice. And voice was the only reflection of himself that he had access to, and so he believed them.
A clone hag appeared at the doorway, and blithely went about her malfeasances. After a while of simmering in her mantras, he found a temporary way of meeting gazes and putting up arms. He might forget it soon, given fate's ways. The structure of evil eyes possibly melted then. Or maybe he did indeed best the challenge. But how often did that happen? Only ever as a delusion apprehended afterwards. Reality checks paid their bills duly.