Five years ago, my father began his descent into dementia and I wondered what went on in his mind.  This led me to a wider exploration of our human consciousness and the vagaries of personal memory.  Our faculties seem so variable person to person.  And so fragile.  Maybe Picasso hit the nail on the head when he said, "everything you can imagine is real"?  What if we are all just simulations in something's imagination?  And what if there's a glitch somewhere?  What becomes of us?
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