Despite objections to the contrary, some kind of semi-transparent blocks, ghosts and shades of what could have gone wrong that are haunting your dreams as you experience some kind of better reality than all that. I don’t determine my reality. Well, I mean, I do, I pay my bills, I try and be responsible, I try to keep a safe 10′ bubble of good reality all day. Maybe 20′, I can square that algorithm if I need to. Quadruple it cubicly. These are possible.
Some kind of wizard living in a cave keeps a notebook that he writes his spells in. He probably has hundreds of little glass bottles in which he keeps magical ingredients he’s found over time, roots and snippets of herbs and powders, oh my. He probably has a big kettle, or cauldron, or large pot, or whatever you want to call it with logs underneath of it that have burst into flames, heating the mixture in the sorcerous vessel and a pinch of this, sprig of that, some magical cantations and boom you have rain and a spell. These are important things. Perhaps it starts raining, so he will then believe his magic works. He might use thyme and mint in the mixture next time, to leave a more pleasing aroma. He keeps notes and writes his magical words in a magical tome that he closes up when he is done and he might have twenty.
Other days, he solitarily wanders the forests and hunts herbs and animal flesh and meat to roast and eat. He’s got another pot for that. He gets to the streams, the creeks, the brooks, and lies down to sip water plainly. It is ideal. These are things that are possible, oh sorcerous wizards of time and space, gallantly, silently, and privately waging wars with spectres unknown, mere future possibilities we are trying to avoid.