There are thousands of worlds and they are as real as you want them to be. I've lived all my life between them. None of them are real, but when you get into them, they're all the same...
I suppose this has always been true, but when you grow up in an idyllic, Mid-Western environment you tend not to notice all the cracks in "reality".
It all fractured for me on July 12, 1992, when i watched my father get arrested in our driveway. Right in the middle of our daily one on one basketball game...that i was actually winning.
The man was a picture of passive defience that afternoon. Ignoring the asshole cop as he jerked my father's arms back into the handcuffed position and roughly applied the restrictive bracelets. My father clearly gave me directions on what should be done after this police officer, with the bad moustache and ridiculous mullet, took him away. Even with his sunglasses on i could see the intensity in my father's eyes. He was a different person. A man i had not met before. Yet still, undeniably, my father.
So, standing there, in my driveway holding a women's sized basketball, i realized that my father was not the man i had absolutely believed he was for the first 12 years of my life. And still, he absolutely was. And i knew that there was no way i could survive in this world unless i could do the same.
I guess that's how i ended up here. Blidfolded and bike chained to a pole. Inside a storage closet underneath track 27 of Grand Central Terminal. And somewhere in here there's a man with a gun.
But let's not get ahead of ourselves here. I'd like to start this story where it's actually interesting...