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.