You asked for a notebook but I gave you an apple. It turns out I don't really exist. Where I was originally standing, a picture of a notebook rests on the ground. You bite your thumb. You awake as a single letter. You start screaming only to have ink fly from your lips. The world is in gray and red.

You ask for a notebook, I give you a notebook. Our hands touch and our eyes meet. A page shifts uneasily under the cover as our eyes meet. I open it and, with pen in hand, make the first stroke. My eye twitches involuntarily. (Across the street a father of two falls down the stairs.) You bite your thumb and look down at the ink on my hands. (There are two children at the top of the stairs.) It's raining as we stand together on the roof. I look at your soaked face, and you are pleading with me. (The children are crying now.) I raise the pen to the page, tears stream down my face. You are on your knees. I consider kissing your cheek for the last time. (You plead with me to go across the street. I hear only children's laughter.) I give you a notebook. (You are screaming as you fall down the stairs.) I am your friend. You cannot see anything. I make a stroke. (The concrete rushes up to meet you.) I awake with a start in your bed. My eye twitches involuntarily. I give you a notebook.
I hold you in my arms. You only blink once. You make no sound.

Why are we speaking Japanese? A young, bleeding clown cries softly as he cradles a notebook. His father stares at him as the notebook falls apart into apples. That girl over there has hay growing out of the sides of her head. I look over my shoulder only to see her with strawberries for eyes and she is singing the song that gives birth to the new world.

You ask me for a notebook. You bite your thumb. Your attempt to reciprocate is cut brutally short as your body experiences a sudden lack of sugar. Across a variety of hidden dimensions you disapprove. Oliver Cromwell hands me an apple, but it slips through my fingers. You bite your thumb. I am reborn as a parakeet. A crack echoes through the universe in defiance of conventional physics as cosmological white noise shifts from randomness to a perfect D-Flat. Children everywhere stop what they are doing and hum along in perfect pitch with the acoustic resonance. Birds fall from the sky as an airplane colides with the earth. A dead detective hesitates momentarily before allowing himself to assume the locus of all knowledge. Entropy crumbles as he peruses the information contained within the universe. A particular caged bird is fed apple seeds for the rest of its natural life. The small library of an orphanage in England ceases to exist. The detective stumbles under the weight of everythingness, his mouth opens up to cry out, and collapses around his body before blinking him out of the spatial plane. He exists only within the fourth dimension. The fountainhead of all knowledge rolls along the ground and collides with a bird. Your mouth tastes like chocolate as your memory returns. I hand you a notebook moments before my body collapses under the strain of reconstitution, disappearing forever. The new world has reasserted itself.

Moments later, a detective dies in a freak accident, and his soul dwells a dusty old library. You disapprove. Your disapproval sends ripples through the inter-dimensional void between life and death. A child begins to laugh as he walks toward the stairway where his father stands.

You bite your thumb.

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