In every universal book
My life’s bounded by birth year and
I never stop imagining the last stop
But the upper-middle and later ranges
Time meant for love and work?
Or is that another fantasy
Including that we’re lost illusions
Dreamed by she who dreams this world?
You, readers, still have a duty
Do I exist?
Am I a simulation?
I’ll listen to you and believe
Even if you’re not real