 I remember calling reality into question for the first time. The things it'll do to your mind. Fracture it, like scrambled eggs. I was eight. Some bugs you shouldn't give to a child. Maybe you should give them to old children. They'll wash them, they'll make them sleep. Slash them, they'll make them sleep. But what? Yeah, so what? Yeah, little marks, yeah. Starish, huh? I remember the first time I felt alone. Isolated on my own. Have you felt it? I remember ink on a page. On a thousand pages. The ink is always the same. Always black. The pages are different. Paper of low quality. Of middling quality. Of high quality. Newsprin. Newsprin. Newsprin. Newsprint. Glass coated paper. Automarked. Recycled. Is there anything worse than a recycled paper? Within the pages. Written in ink. A world. How can that be? How can words create worlds? They're things. Squiggly little lines gouged into pieces of dead trees. I remember all these worlds. Everything in them. Things I have not drunk. Friendships I never had. And loves I couldn't possibly have experienced. Lives I have not lived. Remember them all. As if they were my own. I remember calling reality into question. All the time. Do you?