I had a dream that I was writing a story, but now that I am awake, I can’t remember what it was about. I guess that idea will be lost forever. However, I woke up thinking I should write something, so not everything is lost. Then I drank the waters of life. The living, breathing waters of. The water reinvigorated my being, although the temptation was to keep drinking. That would have negative consequences if I did, so I stopped. I had enough to sate my thirst, but not enough to go into over hydration. I looked around, everything looked green and blue. I laid down in the sun and enjoyed the warm weather. I could hear the burble of water and chirps of birds. A cloud covered the sun and I opened my eyes. The temporary coolness was pleasant as well. I got up and continued my journey. The lasers strobes in the smoke-filled hall as music thumped in time to the light show. The mass of perfume, sweating bodies pressed together and jumped and rubbed together, in a dance filled ecstasy. There was a humidity to the air of human bodies evaporating slowing. Music pulsed through everyone vibrating the building itself as everything built up to a crescendo. People’s minds blurred the boundaries of their own consciousnesses as our personalities dissolved into a single pluralistic rave mind-entity, everyone synced to the same beat and the pounding of our own hearts. Sketches filled the floor of the apartment as the artist discarded them after furious bouts of activity, then ignoring them as his attention moved on to the next work. His mind was aglow with artistic fervour, but it was concentrated only on the task at hand which was drawing what was in his mind this very instant. Nothing else seemed to matter. Once the vision was gone it was gone, and he didn’t care about the momentary snapshots that littered the floor now, often carelessly stepping on them as if they had no value whatsoever. Even on the ones he was drawing, he would carelessly smudge the linework artisticlessly artisticless painless wiped away as no one would care, because he didn’t have the vision to see that other people would value this momentary works. He didn’t bother to correct the mistakes either, because to him those mistakes were meaningless: devoid of value. Everything in this universe turns to dust. Cosmic annihilation. What was the point of all this work, to be nothing again. He thought of burning it all, so no one would have to see his shame, his misery. And in the art, it is what? Nothing really, art is a meaningless word, nothing has meaning. Why do we exist, just to be batteries for a data farm. It’s all just bits of ones and zeroes in the end. And what is the end, just a final goodbye until the sweet kiss of oblivion. He put his hands in his head and despaired. Despair, the final terminus of emotion. The thoughts ran through his hands like water through a sieve and his couldn’t see any reason why anyone would want to hear these thoughts. It is all pointless. Nothing coalesces into an infinite point that has no point because when everything is one, it is all the same and bland and boring and why would anyone even try in the first place. We may as well just lie down and let the world pass. Let the caretakers do all the work as I just lie and slowly rot in a bed, only leaving to relieve myself and maybe consume a little bit of food and drink because I have no choice but to because as much as I want to disconnect my mind, I have to survive because I need to live and wake up only to sleep again, to wake up and then sleep. Maybe someone wrote about these emotions, but it wasn’t me because I did nothing. No one reads these days; it is only the intelligentsia who do. Those born with the silver spoon, and for me nothing my scrapped of bright blue light as the brick that I weigh myself down with and supposedly connects me to the outside world just showed me the infinite content of nothing substantial. And there is not art in the world, only the echoes of content made for the depressed masses like me and there is not end to the falling in the hole as my body atrophy and I don’t even eat food that fully nourishes me and my back hurts and the sunlight hurts me and I sleep too little and too much. How long have I been here? I wonder as the thoughts come confused and then there is a red door that I pass through and then I am sitting on a seat and he asks me if I know why I am here and I do not know because I don’t remember how I got here, not since passing that red door, and people are talking to me and I talk back to them, just it’s all so confusing because everything is confusing these days. The world has moved on without me and it has reached out because maybe there is life and maybe there is light outside of the red-green-blue that makes up the oblong that has been put down and I lie down, but in a different bed with a different ceiling and I wonder how I got here, just as I get to sleep I seem to wake up again although now it is daylight and I wonder how much time has passed in this new room, days, weeks, years? I don’t know, but also the other thing I don’t know it how they knew where to look for me because I was all alone in parasocial relationships, merely feeding off the energies of others, like some kind of digital vampire. And I walk outside and there are still trees and birds singing, rooting though the fallen leaves of insects and worms and spiders. I vaguely remember that books exist and they have words in them of other people experiencing the world in all its glory and pain and sorrow. I read now, and I feel better, although sometimes I feel worse too because the world isn’t so simple as to be good all the time. The sun kissed my cheeks and it was warm and pleasant and I got up and walked on.