Sabine's dedication to her focus, even as it pushes forth more and more in the way of jumbled emotions and scrambled images, is born of a whole existence of being barraged with so much information, backward and forwards, that it would overload a single human being. Which she might look, but she'll never be. Nor has night after night of months with the same result each night caused her to consider quitting.

She lets it flow through her. No longer simply reaching out with metaphorical hands, waiting to be taken, but connecting to it like she had in the Nether. Letting it flow through her, all of her. Not help another this time, but to listen to it as such. The Singularity, like a river, flowing through her, always overflowing its banks and circling back in and of itself. Insistent and primarily content—and if she isn't reading it wrong, starting to slow down.

Not today or this moment, but in the last month or two. Increasingly slower.
Like it was turning inward like it was softening, like it was ... almost sleepy.

Sabine is momentarily surprised into blinking her eyelids when an image of Kansas—and the normal, common, always-yet-never-here-with-The-Singularity, certainty of it being Kansas—shivers through her. Tearing her from it before she pressed her hands firmer and tried to reach for that specifically. That one clear image. The thread trailing and tattered behind it. A thread of connected bits, locations, and faces, blurring through everything.

The soft murmuring of something, like a voice, but not in or of the image itself.