There was always a whisper of something else for Minki; There was always the slightest of possibilities that nothing he knew or understood now was real. That everything he thought he knew he had simply dreamed up on some accidental overdose; Not a far of possibility-The plethora of pills the young man took more akin to a hundred year old’s medical regime.

The something else was faint, and hard to describe; It was the slight option that he wasn’t real, or he wasn’t he, or she was in fact someone else entirely. There were the strange whispers; The suggestions for a weak mind. Was he real? Was he where he was supposed to be? Was he who he was supposed to be? Was he himself, now, or someone else?