From The Solipsist

You are not real.

You are merely a piece of my mind.

A piece of me.

You are a fragment of my imagination to replace the loneliness that has befallen my individual character.

My mind is the writer, my body the protagonist.

When I move forward, the world before me is drawn, creating intricate and detailed pathways to the horizon.

I do not look back, for there is nothing to see. Only that which is before me is visible.

When I look right, the right is created.

When I turn left, the left has been formed.

Every object you touch, every word you say, thing you taste, hear, or smell, every action you imagine or carry out, every emotion you feel, or movement you make, every thought you have on even this very subject comes through me.

I have touched it, said it, tasted it, heard it, smelled it, done it, felt it, moved it, thought it. I have done it all. I have completed each task because you have, and you are a piece of me. A work of art by mine own hand. A fragment of fiction to be molded around my character.

All it takes is simple observation of yourself at this moment.

You are here now, reading these very words which I have written for you, miraculously placed before you came upon them.

How did you get here?
I brought you here.

Why are you here?
I wanted you to be.

You are not real.