When I wake up, I am wide asleep. All of life is the ephemera of dreams. Every touch, every word a wisp of cloud that dissipates under the force of a breath. Always moving, slowly, drifting. There is no way to hold on to the passing moments, for they are illusions that slip through your fingers when you try to grasp them. All you see is nothing more than an instantaneous idea of the universe, to be replaced almost as quickly with the next.
Or perhaps all around us is real, and we are imagined.