Thunderstorm quietly rumbles through the empty living room.
As I sit in front of my computer, I'm trying to grasp the concept of reality.
What's going on with this body of mine?
What's the purpose of this flesh and bone filling up this space and time?
Thoughts don't seem to come from the brain of this human figure.
Words are flying in from outside the body.
I'm staring at myself typing.
I see those fingers move.
It's scary.
And it's probably time to move this body to bed.
And let things synchronise together as one next morning.
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