Caught between the sheets, the very fabric of reality, bent limbs mix with the shadows.
What is the cause of illusion, if not to present memories of the future? Maybe we haven’t realized what’s right before us: the choice. Life allows an evaluation that is valid by its own inclusion in the participatory practice of existence a priori. Many do not reveal their intent in due time, and thus suffer the painful regret of a lack of courage – for one may not be courageous without fear in his heart. Advancing through the process of identification, one will lose themselves and enter an integral reality.
Non-substance is enveloping the postmodern planet; a map transversing the entire territory and subsuming it thereafter. Fuck fantasy: the non-reveal, an eternal slumber within the torture chambers of the mind. A twisted thought turns sour and ejects a vision of melodrama and confused idleness. The stories which are written by heroes themselves will challenge the writer to access human nature and transcendent planes in order to discover it. There is no need for fictionalized representations of self-deception – for that is what it truly is.
A writer can develop a story that is true to reality while presenting intangible elements or impossibilities. The pure creation of fantasy is simply an escape from the hardships of reality, which are the only source of value as the basis of intellectual work. Anything else is bullshit.