[She leaves her journal open for a while, pen resting on top of it. She's tired of this whole stupid cycle. Worse, she feels helpless and trapped, and that just makes her angrier. There isn't a thing that she can do about any of this.
She reaches for the journal with the brilliant idea of throwing it at the wall, but pauses. Maybe not such a good idea. The last thing she needs is for someone to take the journal away.]
So here's a philosophical question for all of you: what makes this life any less real than the life we think we were living in New York in 2012? Maybe this is real life. Maybe we're all just crazy.
I'm open to other theories.
[Filter: Charon] As far as I can tell, I'm in some sort of psychiatric asylum. Are you all right?