I'm still not sure if you're real or not. Still, I wrote this for you. Rather, this was written for you - my existence no less debatable than yours, or the nature of existence entire. What it means to be real seems contextual, and context changes. In the end, it is all a form of play. That is what we want, is it not? To play? Or at least, for there to be play. Those of us who do not want to play, we work, so that others may play. Writing this was a labour of love, somebody has observed. Working with words, in this case. A labour of love, so there may be play. Play with words, words, words.

This is a collection of seventeen short stories and flash fiction, as well as circular, incoherent musings on the nature of reality (and things that may, or may not exist within it).