Stuttering to a halt

All along my multiverse string is an event I like to call the Stutter.
It's impossible but it's there.
Imagine a troop of unicyclists.
A breed of individualists, you'd think-- not one is the same as the other.
Like herding cats, you'd suppose; every cyclist lurching around at different angles, left or right or straight or back as their balancing acts spun out in perfect disharmony, an orchestra's chaotic tuning rumble before the show that goes on until the end.
Yet inconceivably, down the line, at every possible moment, my unicyclists jerk to a halt.

(It's chilling, like stepping into a room full of babies. All their wobbly little heads turn to stare at you. Babies are predators.)

I glance down the string of me, across a row of my perplexed face. Even Mustache Nathaniel, the most invincible of all Nathaniels, can go no further. We're at the wall.

Some of me scritch uneasily at the air, other me pace. I'm a me for random pointless adventure; it passes the time and hides my unease.
I think Mustache Nathaniel's gone to the bottle.
We can't congregate and work this out, the me.
We're on the string, and the string is not a single place.
It's something of a surprise I can see me at all.
Yet the string is there in the corner of my eye, a hazy flashbulb growing sick and weak.

There's an answer. The answer's always been there, after a fashion, but it's one I've never liked.
It seems too easy and too quick, and it would solve all the problems I love having.
Cut the string.
You can make it quick and painless.
Pop, a bundle of balloons imploding in the cold of space. And then nothing but rubber scraps.

I grimace. The far end of the string frays as a few of me eagerly embrace that option. The assholes. They wouldn't have made it anyway. I give that tattered end the finger as they put those me in the earth.
Mustache Nathaniel's bought a motorcycle. Damn. Wish I'd thought of that.

I lean back and contemplate the wall, and let the string fade out of sight for now.
But no matter how long I stare, the answers aren't coming.