As I recovered from my mysterious medical emergency, I tried to explain to mom (and the docters from 911 emergency) what had caused it, since they had been unable to find any physical abnormality which caused my sudden collapse.

"It's all as Philip Dick said. Reality itself is propaganda. As each rendition of the illusion is shattered, a new one immediately takes its place, until even the shattering itself becomes part of the veil. Reality falls apart, and is falling apart, but focusing on the falling apart itself is now what is keeping us from gnosis -- The secret inner knowledge of the universe."

I had to finish the novel I was writing based on the dream from which I had earlier awoken. Or had it been a dream? Maybe it was just another tweaked version of the story. I didn't actually remember ever waking from the dream, so maybe it wasn't a dream. At any rate, I had to keep writing before I forgot any of it.

I was making it up as I went. The novel, based on the dream from which I could not remember awakening.

A neon Camel Lights sign in the room where first person narrative character goes to discover the ultimate truth behind the mystery -- the "real" version of real (or, that there is no true real, and that the universe behind the universe keeps falling apart, and every version is yet another deception). But in context of earlier events, this product placement will be designed to undermine and reverse the very sorcery of product placement itself. (Akin to the massive Coca-Cola billboard in Bladerunner.) Ironic, I think. Or is it?

But the joke was on me.

All were gathered in the theater. Amidst the tragedy that had just occurred -- a mother in the audience whose tiny child had died minutes before was grieving (cause of death now obscured, but I know it had something to do with cigarettes, or... no, that's not right either) -- a hushed sort of subdued sadness permeated the air. But the film was finally going on as planned. This was good because we had gone through so much to make it. It couldn't stop now. Not for that.

Then, just as it was getting under way, the projector powered down, and the lights went up. Groan. A woman stood up in the front and explained that in light of recent events, Gucci Fashion was now unwilling to sponsor the event. She frankly stated that they no longer wanted their brand to be associated with what was going on here, nor did they want themselves to be seen as capalizing on a tragedy, so they were pulling support.

We were pissed off. I stood up and shouted, "We demand that the film go on."

The woman smiled, and explained that it would still be shown, but it would be a few moments before it resumed, because they had to digitally edit the Gucci Logo out of the footage. That wouldn't really even change the content of the film at all, because the only place the logo had even occurred was right at the end of the company credits. But it needed to be removed before things could proceed.

We milled around in the lobby discussing things while we waited. I thought back to the poor woman, and wondered if there was any way things might have been different. Maybe all it would have taken was a tiny little glitch in reality to prevent the tragedy from occurring...

[changeover -- a transition, but with a jolt]

The movie was getting underway. Not only that, but somehow, none of the bad shit had ever happened at all. River was still alive! (That was her name, wasn't it? River. But Summer Glau was still dead as of last year. And we weren't referring to the flower girl from the wedding either. Were we?) All it had taken to change the course of events was a tiny flip of a quantum particle, and now things were happy.

Or were they? A creeping sense of unease filled me. This was not right. This was not real. But it was. There was no way I could substantially argue that this parallel incarnation of reality was either any less real or less desirable than the other one. That's when it hit me. I ran out of the theater. I had to write down what I knew.

I decided to put it down in the form of a novel. A "universe falling apart" novel, patterned after the stylings of Philip K Dick. But even as I was writing about it, I was inspired to discover an even deeper mystery. I decided that in the novel, I would portray this by having the main character seek out a mystery room, where the propagandistic nature of reality is revealed, and therefore shattered.

[If I ever did awake from this to truly recognize the truth, the magnitude of the realization would shatter me to the point of physical failure requiring emergency medical care. Still, I sought it.]

[Everything now is fictious. It cannot be put back together as it was. Even that previously written is but a facile and inaccurate imitation of the depth of experience. All I can find now are tiny fleeting fragments.]

Entering the scene of the drama -- we had journied and adventured so long to arrive. All of that is behind. Now that we were here, something was amiss. Someone was about to die. I looked in the faces of the people who were gathered for the show. There was drama and conflict between them even as they waited, all being played out.