I don’t lie to people. I do, but I write fiction. I tell fictional stories, fancy tales of heartache and woe and lies that are real in your mind. They go no further. There is no mythical, imaginary beast to kick open the door on us and pop our brains out our eyeballs in reality. It’s contained by the cranium, they go no further than the density of yon cranium, the bone stops it, fella.
That’s good. That’s a good thing that our magic photos are not of the earth. You and I, merely dust, atoms, but our minds are not of the dirt and stardust, they are otherworldly, you feel me, dog? Not of this realm, tripping out from outer space, my memories of a land that does not weigh down my grey matter with physics and mass and weights, our imaginations are ethereal, captain, they are ported in from another planet. Can you put down what’s been down since day 1?
Yes, we all can. We all read that page, home-bro. We all are alive, unless you’re not, or they’re not, or whatever. Whoever was not alive getting down on this, they are still real people, with real eyeballs, menacing shit, I’d be lying to you otherwise.
It’s not really material. Listen, this magical, mystical animal of the neither-lands, sweet way up the mountain, beyond Romania, this magical, material and fanciful creature that could pop our eyelids with n’ary a glance is just cheese or butter to the moon. Made-up and wholly malleable in another dimension he is, or we are. Or all three, or all of us.
He heads around home of his own accord, he has a beacon of which to follow, a 1 dimensional dot of which he traverses the bubbles with. You know, because it’s universe, or reality is comprised of the material between the prismatic surface of soap bubbles, or perhaps some orthogonal schematic of neutrons and quasars of which to rest it’s head upon at night, and daydream and sleep the sleep of imaginary lands. He rests easy on his vicious laurels, fallen prey to the endeavor of the cosmos, the bitter sleep that slams our brow like a sledgehammer, sprinkling dust in our eyes.