I don't know what these combinations of shapes and colors called "people" are, I don't know why they appear to me, I don't know what they arise out of or what the sounds coming from them mean, I don't know if they are alive or dead (and I think they are dead). They are phantoms that come to me and demand things of me--they demand I speak to them or work for them or be friendly with them--they demand that I believe they are alive, they demand that I believe they are real just like I. The one who calls herself my mother demands I speak with her; the one who calls himself my brother demands me to be friendly with him; and the voices call me on my phone, and they are mere voices hanging in the void, with no bodies attached to them: they too call me and demand I speak with them and be friends with them. They demand that I believe they are not phantoms but real people, but they are only phantoms, combinations of color and shape that appear to me for no reason. I am the only being that exists in the universe, and I stand out on the precipice and say, "Was all this, then, created to torment me?" These colors and shapes called people have sounds coming from them--sometimes words, sometimes laughter--and I don't know what any of it means; I know I live at the bottom of the earth, at the very center of the world, and all these phantoms were created only for my torment. This is why I flee them--and out of the unlimited dream I awake and hear off in the distance a crowd laughing and laughing.