Overwrite Even Hell.

Nobody could really understand that Deja Vu was not a mere gut feeling; not the sixth sense, not the shimmer of a half-remembered dream. For Eden Cross it was something older and heavier than that, the specific weight of a man who has died one thousand seven hundred and seventy-one times and woken up not remembering any of them.
The modern world is a poem. It has been running for seven hundred years. Its author does not consider the people inside it to be real.
He is about to be proven wrong.