“Same Thing Happened To Me.”

To quote the title of a John Prine song I love to sing.

What I find interesting is that the only thing I can be sure of (if even that) is the existence of the soloverse. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that precludes my being a lunatic in an asylum somewhere, running feedback loops through my senses to tell me all the things I believe I hear and see and feel and smell and touch, including, ultimately, the existence of the universe itself, with features as unlikely as galaxies and quarks and characters as unseemly as Donald Trump.

What’s comforting is the thought that the whole thing will disappear when I die. The soloverse, surely, and the universe, quite possibly. But the distinction will be completely moot because I’ll be, you know, dead.