I’ve skimmed reality for ages, hovering above solid shapes and substance. Senses are a shade of rift, cracked and disjointed in an ever-growing hallway of warped uneasiness. I am a creature of fear, immersed forever in writhing horrors given strength by my vivid and terrible imagination. So sounds cascade, the world perpetually filtered through distorting lenses, and everything so obviously improper, so wrong. My mind has rebelled against this mockery, tearing constantly at my resolve and steadily eroding away sanity already shrunken and lame.There is only emptiness here. My stomach writhes and churns with each realization, of myself, of the world, of the universe and the origin of reality. No logical or sensible understanding seems capable of calming frayed nerves when all appears to be tainted, impossible and improbable.Who is there? Who is none. All is there. And so, is won But seemingly I can Know all I do. Seek nothing I am Tired of simplicity Sought of infinity but no it is not And there I care not It endsIs this random? Does it matter? I can not fix it, and it laughs. This is all there is, and in the end, nothing remains. This world is but a shard, an expression of all realities that can or will exist. I am me, I am you, I am the woman sipping a beer in a run-down Copenhagen bar, and I am nothing. I am here because I am an expression, an aspect of reality. I am the universe, and so are you. This is the true instrumentality of reality; nothing exists because everything exists. There is no beginning or end, only existence and oblivion entwined for a timeless eternity.I understand it all, but can not escape the feeling I am merely watching the life of another. Dreams are more real than this increasingly unbelievable facade.I wish I could wake up, but I am so tired.