sometimes I wonder... was I ever a real person at all? my flesh feels real enough, I see through these eyes of mine, I grow tired, I hunger, I yearn, yet... everything about me feels strange, contrived, contained. Sometimes I wonder, sometimes I pray, I hope that, for the birth of a bright new day, that I was never a real person at all. I still exist, I still want to exist, but I consider myself arcane. strange. I miss feeling real. I miss the feeling of realness. Maybe I'm healing, maybe I'm fleeting. Who can say.