Is this your bedroom, really? Is this your flat?
We’re at the end of the world. Or after it. Or something.
The world is sinking. No, it’s completely fallen.
Do we have to live anymore? Are we still alive? Have we always been dead?
There is no campus. There never was. Where are we, then? Where’s this supposed to be?
We’re AI, entertaining itself. Mother, entertaining herself. We’re in some simulation, after the real world ended. This is a fake world. This is a fake timeline.
How do we find a way back to what was real? How do we get back?
Do we have to die in this world, too? How many worlds do we have to die in?
I feel I’ve lived this before. I think I’ve been here before. Déjà vu, right? No: I think I will be here again. What’s the opposite of déjà vu?
Mother made us. Or made me. And didn’t fill in all the details properly. Parts of my memory are kind of blank.
I don’t feel real. Do other people feel that? Is that part of the human condition, not to feel real?
Who am I supposed to be. And who are you, anyway? What’s supposed to happen here? Are we pretending? Or is pretending pretending?
I don’t think I like this world. I think there’s something wrong with this world.
Something’s wrong: that’s the phrase. Everything’s wrong. And I don’t think it’s going to get any better.
I don’t want to speak anymore. I don’t have any words. These words aren’t mine.
And it was all a dream. We were told we couldn’t end our stories that way when I was in school.
Is that what we’re saying: that it was all a dream? Very Hindu. Very Upanishadic. Our forefathers and foremothers would approve, wouldn’t they?
It was all a dream: is that our conclusion? Some conclusion. More of a cop-out than a conclusion.
Are you realer than me, or am I realer than you?: that’s the question.
Who can help you when you don’t feel real? Can philosophy help? I’ll bet philosophy makes it worse …
Was Mother kind of sketchy filling all the details? Or is it just … vagueness? Tiredness? Needing to sleep?
Couldn’t you fall asleep right here? Right now? In each other’s arms?
We’re sick with ourselves. Sick of being ourselves, maybe. Poisoned, maybe. Do you believe in poison – like, universal poison?
Something evil’s here. Something Bad, capital B. Something’s … infested the world …
The greatest dreams are dreams of annihilation. Of wipeout – a wipeout so entire that … Every trace of me. Of us. Of every … thing …
The original sin of our existence. That we were at all.
Terrible things … terrible things, philosopher. I feel them. I know them.
Mother … what is Mother anyway? Is it all Mother? Is everything Mother?
We live inside the dream.
Organisational Management’s dream? Who’s the dreamer?
Work in Progress 