Subjective

The man, if that’s what he could be called, wandered through what could’ve been considered a city full of what might be called people. He was lost, confused, alone. The maybe-people about him had ceased to be people a subjective amount of time in the past, or was it the future?

As he looked about at the maybe-city that surrounded him, he tried, as always, to soothe himself and grasp this maybe-reality. He walked into what some would call a cafe, and ordered what some may say was a coffee. He tried to drink it, to ground himself in reality. But as always, it was fruitless. The maybe-coffee was bitter, sweet, hot, cold, bland, flavorful, good, bad, all of those at once, and at the same time, none of them.

In some realities, he cried and broke down. In others, he adjusted to the new maybe-world. In most, though, he simply sat where he was, as hopeless and confused as ever. It no longer made a difference who right.

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