doghasitsday

I should probably introduce myself. My name is Harold Lauder. Call me Harold. I'm to understand that anyone who has been here long can help me to better understand this place. It's odd to think on it alone, though. Common sense and experience dictates certainties in one's life. Unusual things exist because the idea of them exists. The second they come to mind, they're there and they always will be. The idea of Santa Claus is real, but the actual man is not. You learn growing up the difference between "fiction" and "reality", and the only people that survive in fiction are the persons that contribute to it. The actors, the artists, but perhaps more importantly the writers, who through the written word can exist elsewhere and at will. I propose that this place is not the same. This is an impossible place, but it's real, more real than an idea, more real than a dream, and I know that this is not a dream. I can't read or write in dreams. Nobody can, not really. But I've read the words I have written here, more than once. They are real. My eyes can see them. I can read them aloud. I must be awake. Or perhaps it's the unjuries. Perhaps there's something wrong with my head, that makes the dreaming different, but why then did the wreck come inside with me? Normally, I'm definitely sure I could tell myself to wake up, but then you don't command yourself out of a coma, do you? Once every rational possibility has been exhausted then one can only begin to entertain the irrational. So make me a believer. What is this place?

(ooc: apologies for the blocks of text. He thinks it's cool.)