I can write reality into existence in my dreams, until a wild scrawl from “me” appeared at the end of the text: (This makes it more exciting). I thought he was crazy, but he told me that we were living in a story written by an “author.”
Now the “author” is dead, and something far more terrifying is crawling along the threads of the narrative, coming to “format” us.
Facing the apocalypse, the madman in my head and I decide to do something big:
