Stumbling with great form,

As ready and stable as any other hungover,

Willfully sick step could be,

I caught a terrifying question 

Posed to no one.

"What if this is all real?"

He was a toothless mess,

Wishing he could feel as bad as me.

Longing for the self defeating luxury of excess,

And stuck with piss stained slacks,

Feeling the true bad I thought I was complaining about.

I get to wreck my body,

Wreck my head.

I more or less play by the rules and am thusly granted

The right to explore the notion that what we stumble around in,

And on,

Is some sarcastic illusion.

Comfort in this sleepless bed of imperminance

Has left me feeling the world I'm supposedly surrounded by

Is up to interpretation. 

But what if this is all real?

What am I supposed to do then?

When it's been a game for so long?

When it's been a beautiful riddle with no end?

When it's been so fleeting,

Consequence has been up to interpretation ?

What if this is all real?