I hate to break it to you, boys and girls.
But none of this is real.
The feelings . . they seem to be real,
but the joke of it is . . .
those feelings you cook up are fuel for the entertainment of
the whole, the all, the universe, the singularity –
whatever you want to call it.
Your lives are story fodder, like so much wood and kindling for a bonfire.
A fire for some otherworldly audience.