Where There's Dope, There's Hope!

Either I've Invented A Whole New Logic Or, Ahem, I'm Not Playing With A Full Deck.

Science Fiction Writers, I Am Sorry To Say, Really Do Not Know Anything.

The Cries Of The Dead Are Terrible Indeed; You Should Try Not To Hear Them.

But The Actual Touch Of Her Lingered, Inside His Heart. That Remained. In All The Years Of His Life Ahead, The Long Years Without Her, With Never Seeing Her Or Hearing From Her Or Knowing Anything About Her, If She Was Alive Or Happy Or Dead Or What, That Touch Stayed Locked Within Him, Sealed In Himself, And Never Went Away. That One Touch Of Her Hand.

Can We Consider The Universe Real, And If So, In What Way?