Its so fake. My clothes, my things, my apartment. Why do I feel this? Something that I call reality, is really only just what I call it, and would be the same whether I call it anything or just nothing. How can I see the world without unconsciously deceiving myself? Everything has its own purpose, who am I to say what that purpose is. Why do I care, why do I ask “why do I care”? labeling things doesn’t let me know them, because to know is to not question. I sat in a bench today, in the sun, immobile. Hurried minds ran faster than their feet. I was the iron bench - and when people looked at me, they didn’t see me as me, only as a part of the scenery. Like the bricks stare at fools, the lamps light the ground at night, and time is an unknown dimension, even mocked when mentioned. If I could have condensed it for a moment, it would still be me on the bench, absorbed into that stationary reality. Ten minutes to sit, to sit. Ten minutes to see myself missing myself and then to bring me back. All corduroyed up and basting. But how I wanted to grab hold of the zombies and put new glasses on them, to raise them again from the dead