Wolfgang shakes their head. “No... it's just, you know, um, on your own. None of this um, uh,” they gesture vaguely to their own head, “you know, ruining stuff.”
Anyone can agree that whatever is going on in Wolfgang's head is weird and sometimes unpleasant.
They start wringing their hands, tugging their fingers and gnawing the knuckles. “I thought, you know, I'd sell them. They're easy to make... I thought it would be good for um, like, anxiety, depression. Not a cure, obviously, I mean, just, you know. I don't know. Or for people who have bad dreams a lot. They're only good dreams... I'd never, you know, I'd never make anyone have a bad dream. I don't know, is that stupid? Maybe no one would want that.”