"I am the one who killed your mother. I am the one who raped and sodomized you and laughed at your desperate sobs. I am the shadow of a man who chills behind the curtains, watching, calling the shots."

"But why?"

"Why? Why is marijuana illegal? Why are cigarettes legal? Why are we spending more money on 'defense' than we ever have, while our economy continues to implode in on itself? Why? Because there are people who control things, not the people you'd think either, that make a profit. Every aspect of our lives makes someone else money."

"What can I do about it?"

"Nothing. You could try to fight it, but you'll never know who or what to fight. You could ignore it, and just get sucked back in. You could rally every person in this country to the cause, but it wouldn't do any good. You'd all be gunned down in the fight against an invisible enemy, and the subsequent news reports would grossly misrepresent the actualities of the situation and villify you effortlessly in the minds of those left over to see the aftermath."

"Is there anything to do at all?"

"Know. Knowing is half the battle. Know and wait. Wait until you see the opening to strike at the heart of the corporate entity that runs the world. It won't seem as if it will do anything, but it will. You'll never see the results of your sacrifice, but twenty years from now your kids will look back at how the Corporation had the world in a stranglehold, and how you wriggled it out."

"Why do you tell me these things?"

"Because you question my answers. Many would disregard my lies as lies, missing the greater truths behind them. Many would accept my truths as truths, missing the lies behind them. You haven't verbally questioned anything I've said, but the device your parents installed into your flesh as an infant, the one designed to "keep you safe," tells me your every thought, and you're thinking that none of this is real."

"I may be."

"No, you are. And you're right. Reality hasn't been real for four thousand years Micheal. This is a sub-plot to a greater story. One paragraph on one of a million pages in the book that is actuality."

"Man, you're-"

"Crazy? No. This, all of... THIS, this is crazy. The objects in this reality, you, me, this wall, are thoughts in the, for the lack of a better word, mind we are a part of. We are all tools in a process, cogs in a machine, all of the knowledge we gain, all of our accomplishments, all of it an on or an off on the switchboard that is the greater whole, all eventually cumulating into one, comprehensive answer to everything that is."

"What are you?"

"I am your way out. I don't exist in this system. I should say my existence is not known of within this existence. I, as you see me, am nothing more than one moment in that stupid, limiting concept you call time. Even referring to myself as 'I' is a misrepresentation, but the concepts I'd wish to convey to you here, in this place, will force you out of existence entirely."

"What do you want with me?"

"A story. The concept you call meaning is a deception. Even I, beyond your every capacity, your every perception, can never say that anything means anything more than that which you assign to it. My presence here within you, even, is meaningless. An exercise in the chaotic orgy of will and action that is everything. Everything I've said to you is wrong. Everything is wrong. The only right is zero, nothingness, equilibrium; and as you can clearly tell by the fact that you... "exist", that there is somethingness."

"...What the fuck are you talking about? What do I even call you?"

"Call me nothing. Calling me something compartmentalizes me into something finite, and in the sense of your perception I am infinite. You have been priveledged with intercourse with something greater than the whole of your... universe. What you conceptualize as "god" is lesser than I. I suppose I am here to plant a seed. 'Time' as you see it is just the progression of entropy, the self-resisting cycle towards zero. Me being here, now, will alter things. You aren't to know now, but it will be by your hand that somethingness comes to nothingness. By your actions, your misguided but ultimately righteous will to do. Your 'meaning' is infinitely beyond your tangible, finite existence, but your actions will take place within it."

"So you're telling me that my purpose in life is to end life? To erase from existence everything I've ever known, and to be right in doing it? I'm sorry, but I now know that you are evil in its purest form, and that I will never, EVER cooperate with you."

"But you already have. Why do you think I've introduced myself as a metaphorical murderer, rapist and dictator? So that you oppose me. I exist just as surely as you do, but the difference between you and me is that I'm not limited by the pitiful attachment to existing. I know that I, you, everyone and everything is wrong, and I strive to fulfil the one and only ultimate purpose; Entropy. And it will be, too. No matter how you act from here on out, you will always know somewhere in your mind of your purpose, and that will invariably cause you to cooperate with me."

"I have nothing more to discuss with you. I don't care if I'm a part of something greater and sinister, all I know is that even if I do fulfil this given and arbitrary purpose, it will be against my will, and I will NEVER have willfully done anything for you. Hello? Hello?"

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Another strange dream... I should really stop taking those meds. I've been having dreams like this for weeks now. But it doesn't matter, they're just dreams, right?

Work. I sell mattresses to people that can't afford them, on credit none of them are good for. I'm not sure how this business is profitable, their operation is sloppier than tubgirl, but they still somehow manage to pay me $6.75 for every hour I spend there, spitting out capitalist propaganda at people who fall for it, and even feel good about going home with a shitty, overpriced square to sleep on.

Off work. I usually go to bars. I don't drink, but one might not be surprised how much drunken sex you can get out of bar-sluts anyway.

Home. Chelsea left. If that was her name. Or was it Chancy, or Charlie... Fuck it, I'll remember her name if and when I see her tits again. In case you're wondering; No, I don't objectify and take advantage of women. They choose to come over, they choose to fuck, and THEY choose to leave when I ask them to. Internets. Yeah. You know what I'm talking about. Once I've uploaded the hidden cam vids of the girls I bring over to rapidshare and pimp them on 4Chan, I move to Myspace to find a desperate, young girl who'll be easy prey. No, I'm not a rapist or a cereal killer. I like to tear people down with words. I never touch or see them, I just hurt them in such a way so as they can't do it back. Call a chubby girl fat, call a skinny girl a cokewhore, call a well-rounded, stable girl an ignorant, stupid teenager enough times and in enough different ways, and they'll harm themselves for you.

It sounds crazy, but what is sane?

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Part two coming when I'm not gonna pass out if I try to write any more.
I know you're confused, but feedback is always appreciated.