The Theory of Relativity
The twelfth Dotty story by Russell Rosander
Reality is a hard thing to define. If you look at it closely, it dissolves into billions of atoms, spinning in space like little solar systems, just pure energy and nothing solid.
It only seems to be what we call real when compared to the imagination. Somehow, that seems even less definable. In the end, perhaps it´s all illusion, but what is this thing I call me? Who is the one who imagines; who is seeing the illusion? Is it all just some kinda trick?
I was out on the patio one afternoon, when I saw Dotty, my imaginary wife, reclinin´ on a soft, fluffy cloud, diftin´ by overhead. Then, she rose up and floated gently down into the chair across from mine.
“Whacha doin´?” she asked.
“Nothin´ out of the ordinary. Just writin´.” I answered.
“Ya know,” she…
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