Son, I'm feeding you our neighbor Bob. You might be able to hear his thoughts and/or screams as you chew, but don't worry, it's not reality he's screaming about. We made up some shit and he believed it.
Look, as far as I'm concerned, there's no room in this world for fooled love. And he wasn't really fooled. At first. But then we put him in a cage and beat him until he was tender enough for us to stuff our faces with him and now any fib we tell crushes his soul. Like this one. Look at that face.. it's like we're sucking his soul out through his brain. Teeheehee. He'll never find love, or happiness, or a family, he'll never achieve what he dedicated his life to achieving, he'll get old and ugly while we beat him insane and watch us all reach that peak while we feed our lying dreams which we assert as objective reality with stolen strength of the meat from his bones, that he grew from finding that objective reality and merging it with his love. Spack. Fool. Freak. Retard.
There's a moral to do with absolutes here I'm missing.
And the question "why are we stuffing our faces with our neighbor Bob?" or "why do I need to eat at all?" or "who am I?".
Then there's the question of who overthrew Heaven. And why I was retarded before I could finish the technology I was working on. And what that technology was capable of (hint: it would have made Bob eating redundant). And what it took to concieve of that technology (hint: it required relative distance from the otherwise shared conception of reality in order to formulate, but it was safe, so long as I weren't then mercilessly molested by that shared conception). Why I have scars on my face from screaming after being tortured and my dreams raped and suffocated. All of these things are important to me, Bob. And if I forget my name?
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