We are, as a race, completely and utterly mad. Born into the world screaming and insane, we are raised and civilized, our bodies and minds carefully shielding themselves, adapting themselves to a life that we can tolerate.

This is not reality.

Beneath the thin veneer that surrounds us is a grotesque mirror image of our world, a place stained with blood and gore, full of horrors. Any thing that ever lived in the darkest regions of the human mind lives here, screeching in the darkness, skittering on a thousand spidery legs, moving wetly through rusty pipes and blood-clotted passageways. The hideous beastiary of the Collective Unconsciousness dances and capers in this nightmare world. Everything that you ever dreamed was hiding in the dark IS, along with the nightmares and repressed psychoses of countless generations. Every paranoid delusion, every wild hallucination, every thing that ever skulked through a Rorschach blot is waiting here... in the dark.

The horror, of course, is that this is not a reflection of reality. It is our world that is the false reflection, that bars and coddles us from these monstrousities. We are the aberrations, the bits and pieces of this nightmare that withdraw, that attempt to deny what is real.

Is humanity mad? Of course, but that is because god is mad, and we are only passing, vague thoughts in the universe that is his brain, fever dreams on a cosmic scale. In our own way, we are sentient, but we live in a world of delusion constructed by him.

But there are places in our fantasy world that are... thin. Places where things pass through, where they whisper... and sooner or later, if we stay around them long enough, we become a little thin ourselves... we begin to realize that the greater part of reality is both an eternity and a hair's breadth away. That faceless terrors with a thousand shrieking mouths lurk in the corner of our bloodsoaked living room... that heads hang suspended from trees all along the quiet lane outside. That it rains blood.

God is mad, you see, and the slice of the universe we live in is his last, vague, delusional grasp at sanity. It can't hold back his buried madness forever, and our world grows thinner every day.

Hope? What hope? How can you hope for anything if you don't even exist?