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I can sometimes smell mint, the kind they put in chocolates and Ice-cream. I must have some neurons firing the wrong information into my brain. But I do so enjoy it, the illusion of the smell. For who is to say what is and what is not. That I can smell mint and you cant. And I only wanted the truth, as you spun around me illusions of it. Smell touch feel. I could be living in a shell. Yet I can smell the walls, and taste the keyboard and hear the pillows as I sit on the edge of your bed.

I know you are sitting at my side, killing the last orc on your computer screen and you are talking to me. In the 90's, that lost decade of sci-fi, they called this sort of a conversation a "chat". So I guess we are chatting. This is what conversations have become. Void of color, form, sound. I am online. That is all I am. I am a "status message". I am a cleverly thought out string of words or a random song lyric. I am online.

Let me break it to you, quite simply, right here, because I can get away with it without having to look into your dumb empty eyes.

cyberpixie252: I am going away. I'm going back.
orceater: LOL. I just blew up cyber Narnia.
cyberpixie252: for real. this is it. deal with it.

cyberpixie@gleemail.com is currently offline and can't receive your messages.

Phone rings, knock on the door. The real world sucks us back in. I get up from the edge of your bed, and the mattress decompresses a bit. We are like phantoms in each others rooms. But like the chocolate I am smelling now, of course I was never there. And now I am gone.