In a world full of copies, we live in a simulated landscape.

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We are the tiny little pixel dots swimming in the simulated desert of the real, trying to locate ourselves in the spectacle of the times, one after another, running in circle.

Like the tiny scales left on your fingers after picking up a butterfly, the fragment is all we have got — the fragment of the real; lick it, and find some comfort in this illusion.

If the world is the projection of our own consciousness, we shall hear the sound without hearing, but within seeing; we shall taste the image, or even touch the mind of another.

In a simulated landscape, at some point we will have to make a decision, or more:

to treat this world as the real, or not; to act like if it is the real, or not;
to forget about the real, or not;
to think about the real, or not;

to talk about the real, or not; to suffer, or not;
to enjoy, or not.