This is a strange universe, Is it all just a blueprint? In the real universe, is my consciousness useless? Are we really something a higher intelligence made up? A figment of imagination colored by a cosmic paintbrush? Maybe all of our art creates the fate of other beings, then every character in every novel thinks it's alive and were just gods, ruling blindly. Just a theory, I don't know what it means, but that's the story of the man who trained himself not to dream.