The next day brought new light; I sat once more in the garden warmed by the citrine sun. Serene Chopin danced playfully in my mind, a catharsis of sorts; the rasping Stravinsky was long gone. Yet with the small relief of an eased consciousness came the steady thudding, the sickening certainty, that numinous security is a lie. ‘God’ is a fake, a pawn in a greater plan perhaps, but a phony all the same. And yet Mum had brought me the last slice; the relief that it was almost over was overwhelming. I suppose you wonder why I ate it really, and I have no answer other than that the more I ate the quicker it would be over. I have no wish to bore you with dull descriptions of my personal apocalypse, so I will not continue much longer. But am I a madman? What evidence is there that I am not a delirious wreck being spoon-fed ginger cake and pumped with orange squash? What is more disturbing is that I have come to find that I myself do not know the world I live in anymore; but what has changed? Has insanity gripped my soul with its frigid claws? Indeed, with the exodus of truth, the betrayal of faith that day, what has become of my lucidity? I’m seven by the way. I will not tell you the fraction, why should you need to know? And I’m the one who revealed the truth.
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