Good news.
I woke up and it was all a dream. Not quite a nightmare, you know. One does acclimate to the horror.
I'd been thinking reality was relative since I'd thought really hard about the contrast between the dream during the dream and the realisation just after, and how it'd be extraordinary were it not for thousands upon thousands of bouts of credulity, forever at home ahead of the unfailing revelation that dawns on the dreamer. So I'm no longer sure it's less naive to believe in the dream night after night, when it's proven false by my own senses day after day, than it's to maintain a belief in the same senses reminding me nothing's amiss. What year is this?
The good news is I woke up and it was all a dream. Though that's not really a twist. I have gotten used to this.
What all? I'd been considering the question with increasing regularity proportional to the accumulating moments of realisation that the sight in the slumbering that'd just occurred was an involuntary illusion. A certain multitude of such experiences wrench the remarkable into a yawn and a stretch. While the distinctness of certainty seems somehow symmetrical, it's only so. How far back can this go?
I've got good news. Today is the first day after the last.
