The Man Who Does Not Exist visited me yesterday.
“Who are you?”, I asked.
“I am everything. I am nothing,” he replied.
“You are not real,” I said.
“Neither are you,” he responded.
“I am unlike you. I am real, of flesh and bone, of thought and action. You are a figment of my imagination,” I said.
“You are nothing,” he said to me. “You’ve done nothing.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“You are what you do,” he said. “You are what you do.”
Then he was gone.