Treasured

But how does one discern delusion from disillusion? How do we know we are not the deviations, the anomalies upsetting the natural order of the absolute truth? After all, I might not exist as all. I too might be the product of someone else’s imagination, breathed onto paper or coaxed onto a white computer screen by the sheer force of will of one as desperate and as deranged as me. Maybe everything you read was the ramblings of a nonexistent entity, of a phantasmal puppet on ethereal strings.