How can you possibly consider this to be real? None of this is actual. None of this exists. Not you. Not me. The dog or the cat. Elm trees or sky scrapers. They aren’t there. We make them there, force them to be where we place them. The waking world is whittled from wood of the mind’s forest. Nothing more. All those things you cling to. All those once upon a times. What ever exists of them? Is it copy, image, print, audio record? Are measurements birthed by our innovation the sand line for truth? Is it any wonder that our “facts” prove themselves? No. Our somedays and one days and Mondays and yesterdays are all this day. If a man may be the sum of his memories would he not be when he has forgotten himself? I tell you, there is no you to remember. Only to be.