The first blonde asks "What is the nature of our existence?"
The second blonde replies "That depends on your conception of consciousness."
A third blonde walks by and say "How can I really be sure any of you exist? How can I be positive that you are anything more than a construct of my own mind?"
Intrigued by this, the second blonde asks the third to explain herself.
Lost for words, the third blonde merely replies "It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream—making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams. No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone."
Finally, a fourth blonde walks by and says, "None of this matters, we're all going to die somedaaaaaaaaay"
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