I’m floating disconnected from everything. The world is far away and unreal. The world is floating, not me. I question. It’s the big question: is any of this real. Is this writing real, because if it wasn’t, wouldn’t it just change to appear real? Or is that the real questioning the real questioning the real?

Memories. They float next to the world; heck, they are the world. What is real but what you remember? There isn’t a now. The now is a moment ago and the thoughts, the thinking of a minute ago, becomes a minute ago. Are any of these changes real? I see friends but what are they? Perhaps that was the first time I met those people, or worse, not only have I never met them, but also I never saw them yesterday. Figments float around me like clouds swimming on the sky’s ceilings. Again, that now or a moment ago or never, but in--I was going to say the mind, but isn’t that subject to the now-moment dilemma?

Is Doolies real? Did I spend two weeks wrapped in her arms studying her smiling smile? It seems far flying thirty-five thousand miles over an earth that floats around me pretending to exist in a moment only to become a stale record of a moment ago.

Welcome to Seattle; it floats and questions its own existence.