Cotus E-Book

Noin T. Joynds

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 596

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The light at the end of the tunnel should come as little surprise after one's own death. But what comes after that? An agnostic with a sense of irreverence and humor finds himself in the afterlife after his passing – face to face with the "Creator", who by no means wants to be called "God". The latter agrees – perhaps out of boredom? – to give a tour of the various afterlife options before the decision on the soul's ultimate fate is made.

Leseprobe

PROLOG

How can death feel so alive?

And what about the familiar, icy burden of old age, of miserable wasting away? Gone, along with the dim, milky eyesight. I breathe deeply. Effortlessly. Truly, not just hopelessly straining a listless diaphragm. Full mental capacity unexpectedly and eagerly returns to work, with the clarity and vitality of a long-forgotten era.

The backs of my hands are endlessly fascinating. Brownish age spots have faded, grey hairs and crater-like pores have disappeared. I spread my fingers – strong tendons instead of grotesquely protruding strands. Filigree branches of elastic veins replace bulging, bluish shimmering surface tubes.

I caress and pinch the skin with strengthened fingers. Collagen-saturated, wrinkle-free tissue replaces papery thinness. Upon letting go, the mountains that readily piled up due to the pressure stretch within seconds; unrestricted, the tissue submits to the mandate of youthful suppleness.

I clench my hand, twist it admiringly. The fingers fold smoothly, the tips reach the center of the palm effortlessly. Recently, an impossibility. The thumb rests across the knuckles like a seal. Recently, an impossibility. I spread and clench my hand several times. Smooth, perfectly lubricated, as if resting on balls. Recently, an act of agony.

I reassure myself that it is indeed my rejuvenated hand. My gaze follows the limb’s flow over the forearm and elbow to the shoulder. Yep. Clearly attached to me. Thus my hand.

About now, a mirror confirming the miraculous rejuvenation would be most welcome. I smile: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the youngest in this... afterlife?”

I cast another careful look at the dim tunnel and the tempting light. Still no reception committee in sight. Good. I'm not in any particular hurry.

I continue to rediscover myself, kneading my face. It reports that it is lush, velvety and wrinkle-free. My nose and ears don't seem to stick out quite as prominently anymore? And the unchecked nose and ear hairs that used to cause slight disgust in the bathroom mirror have obviously receded without the use of a trimmer? Perfect. Because I don't have one with me.

What about my hair? I run sensible fingers through it. I can't feel much of a difference, hair is hair. Maybe a little thicker? I try to pull a strand into view, squint upwards, but due to the short cut I can't see the current coloration.

Well then, sacrifices must be made! I pluck a random member from the assembled team. Ouch! Note: the sensation of pain still works. Four other, strategically distributed samples also shine in a rich brown, no trace of “dignified” white. I feel the embarrassing bald spot on the back of the head – and look! Or rather, feel: densely populated! Even the receding hairline above the forehead no longer seems to need intensive treatment with sun cream.

As I continue to explore my “dead sure” rejuvenated body in amazement, admiring toned muscles and the loss of my sagging belly, a vague feeling of imbalance creeps in. The disproportion between the vital physique of a man in his mid-thirties and the mind of an embittered old man who just minutes ago was terminally ill seems disorienting, alienating. Inappropriate, like a ninety-year-old bachelor in that lowbrow, hormone- and adrenaline-saturated production of the early 2000s, “The Bachelor.”

Careful now – let's try a few steps. And indeed, I continue to shuffle cautiously, hardly daring to lift the soles of my feet from the ground. My arms are anxiously spread slightly forward and to the side. Hands are itching to grasp the comforting handles of a walker. The ingrained movement patterns of an old man. It will probably take some practice to adapt the movement repertoire to the rejuvenated body, to make full use of its possibilities.

I smile. Probably a case of overripe wine in new bottles.

A (supple) shrug of the shoulders. Nothing to be done. I will no doubt get used to it. There are far worse things than a rejuvenated body.

And more important things.

Just a reminder: you are in the afterlife, whatever it may be. I detach my attention from my body and direct it to the surroundings, vaguely familiar from myths and reports of near-death experiences.

Perhaps the conditions in the afterlife require an agile, enduring, battle-ready young body?

Patiently and wordlessly the light beckons.

1

THE ALLURING LIGHT

The call pierces the palpable silence before fading into the dimly lit distance.

“Over here!”

And with a touch of irony: “Where it gets brighter, you will find the light!”

The deep voice with the pleasantly sonorous timbre of a radio announcer makes me look to the side in surprise, while my hand is still feeling the texture of the subtly backlit, semicircular tunnel: pleasantly warm and slightly yielding, but building up resistance when pressed. The colorless surface is reminiscent of velvet.

I straighten up and cast a cautious glance over my shoulder. Behind me, the smooth tunnel narrows to a point of total blackness. Nothing but emptiness.

I had lost myself in thoughts: What unsettled me was how composed I felt after my seemingly endless, final gasp under the yoke of pain that was only inadequately suppressed by strong medication. Not to mention the sad sight of my relatives helplessly wringing their hands, desperate, but also horrified by the almost tangible presence of death. A sight that gave me unwelcome feelings of guilt about my thoughtless, selfish demise. When I was already fully occupied with dying!

But once arrived in the afterlife? I feel calm, quiet, composed – whole. My mind is already busy mercifully concealing the oppressive aspects of my end with puffy clouds of forgetfulness. Repression, encapsulation – a useful process, protecting the mind from an indifferent fate. More effective than any drug.

One last caress of the velvety surface before I turn my attention fully to the light and the voice – a voice for which many a podcaster would walk over the corpses of their followers.

The voice resonates: “The system is actually designed to be foolproof: As soon as the arriving soul sees a warm light in a dim tunnel, it is magically drawn straight towards it…”

I have now arrived completely in the here and now, peace and serenity continue to envelop me, lending me strength. An old instinct tickles me. Ironic wordplay was my thing, and still is.

“Said the electric bug zapper to the moth that was insidiously attracted with UV light?”

The cheerful, full laughter of the outline bathed in light finally detaches me from the wall and moves me further into the glow. “Touché!”

Let's first establish a basis. “I assume that I am now in the afterlife?”

I am proud that I can broach this existential topic without any pitiful overtones in my voice. And tremendously relieved that the process of suffering and dying seems to be behind me. Well, at least the dying.

A final look around in the brighter light – no gates to hell in sight, no horned minions lurking in corners.

The Evil One... I vaguely remember the eerily fascinating explanations about the kingdom of Lucifer, which were taught in detail and without being asked in the compulsory religion classes at primary school. Of course, out of selfless concern for my poor, helpless soul. Hmm, it could also be interpreted as early career advice for the potential sinner.

“Isn't that obvious?” As I approach, the figure emerges from the light, the contours become clearer; male, about my height, slightly curly hair, a well-groomed goatee... hmm, already quite grey? And an elegant suit – all in white, including a white tie.

A subliminal alarm signal! Perfectly tied ties are often associated with respectability by the uninitiated. From experience, however, I am extremely cautious when it comes to well-dressed people wearing elegant ties – because when I have been ripped off in the past, it was usually by people wearing fashionable accessories. Flashy watches, elegant pocket squares and shiny lace-up shoes are other sure indicators.

A faint suspicion arises. I focus my gaze discreetly, but can't make out any threatening shadows of horns... So it seems I'm not being picked up by the Lord of Darkness himself?

Correct, I am referring to Satan, the long-time head of the circles of hell in Christian doctrine, which are meticulously divided according to sin. Exclusive provider of the all-round action package “Eternal Torment”, vividly advertised in the gruesome landscapes of Hieronymus Bosch.

The voice interrupts my train of thought. “Your death, the tunnel, the light... should provide enough clues, right?” A vaguely worried frown. “At least I tried very hard to avoid any confusion when I was designing it…”

The accompanying, hidden smile takes the edge off the comment. I feel the corners of my mouth begin to lift and form a hesitant smile. A rather unusual facial expression in recent months. Not without reason. But it feels liberating and clean. I try small variations, finally find my tried and tested smile again and keep it, carefully balanced, on my lips.

I ask “Is it possible that, as the main character in a near-death experience, I will be sent back straight away? Not that I really want that; the last few years have been rather unpleasant and also quite frightening.”

The figure becomes serious, it is obviously time for business. “No, I rarely recruit drifters between worlds; scouts who take away some of the fear of the living generations, who give them a vague indication of a perfectly acceptable continuity. These drifters must also meet specific criteria that do not apply to you. First and foremost, they must have a strong longing to return to life…”

I'm now standing right in front of the figure. Wait, isn’t that…? Accompanied by the melodic shattering of fine porcelain, my jaw drops on my feet. “Morgan Freeman? The actor? But wait a minute, you're not dead yet! Are you?” Apologetically: “Sorry, I'm not the typical target audience for celebrity news…”

Morgan reassures with his typical, frank grin: “Morgan's condition is beside the point... This and the fact that I am speaking about him in the third person should lead you to an obvious conclusion, namely...?”

Brown eyes beneath expectantly raised eyebrows gaze at me with mild interest.

Really? A question and answer game, here and now? Well, I am a guest after all and am naturally accommodating. “I assume you are God… God in human form?”

Morgan tilts his head slightly, pondering. “I prefer the term 'Creator'. The label 'God' is too closely linked to religious principles and interpretations – and loaded. I would never let myself be harnessed to such a cart. And there are so many carts these days that it's confusing.” A quiet laugh. “And only one donkey!”

The Creator? I stand before the Creator? Creator of worlds, of the universe, countless galaxies, suns and planets, of gravity – simply of everything? Space and time? Love and hate? Leprosy, tax returns, gluten-free breakfast cereals, Corona, Dolby Surround, the offside rule?

I look around for a place to sit. Without success. Fortunately, the situation is too overwhelming to immediately fall into entirely appropriate panic. For now, let's change the subject to gain some time. “But why Morgan Freeman?”

Given the enormous potential right in front of me, I cautiously remember established rules of etiquette. “And can I even address you informally?”

His smile turns mischievous. “But of course, 'Mr. Creator' sounds terribly elitist – I like it simple, short and concise, which is why there is generally no formality here. For the sake of simplicity, just call me 'Morgan' ... or COTUS.”

Sounds kind of Roman? ... “COTUS?”

“Based on POTUS, 'President of the United States', COTUS stands for 'Creator of the Universe(s) and Souls'. I admit, I love the American urge to abbreviate everything that has more than three letters. And I like the sound!”

Dreamily, he lets the syllables sound and fade away, finely strung together, elegantly directing with one hand in front of him: “... CO-TUS …”

I'll try to avoid rolling my eyes. Great, a narcissistic geek! And we'll probably avoid mentioning that the title has already been taken by the “Congress of the United States.” Or that it's sailing within easy shouting distance of “COITUS”. Then again, who has more right to impressive titles?

“Universes and souls… so there are parallel universes?”

“Later.”

So that means yes? Okay, that can wait. Far more important: “And souls. Souls like mine …”

“Just like yours.”

Do we dare? “I hope this is not offensive – do you also have a soul?”

Morgan weighs things up. “Well, the term 'soul' could certainly be used as a very simplified generic term – but the concepts are not directly comparable.”

Then let's really hope that variants of souls are also basically benevolent. And if possible, more benevolent than average people.

“And why Freeman?”

Morgan gently taps my chest with his index finger. “You have to ask yourself that. I use a human avatar that you know and trust so that we can communicate through language, facial expressions and gestures – we need a compatible interface, so to speak. Otherwise, you would quickly become overwhelmed and start babbling senselessly, then quickly become catatonic. And you would drool slightly, which is not particularly appetizing to me. And Morgan? You chose him yourself, unconsciously.”

Confused, I let my gaze wander; neither tempting light nor dim tunnel rush to give me insight. “But why should I ...”

Morgan raises his right hand, catches my attention with a quick wiggle of his fingers and reassures me: “That is not at all unusual; Morgan is chosen in 68.3% of cases by souls from your era and the Western Hemisphere, respectively the sphere of influence of Western culture.”

He looks at me expectantly. “Do the movies 'Bruce Almighty' and 'Evan Almighty' mean anything to you?”

The penny drops. The accompanying sharp snap of my fingers is reflected weakly from the patient tunnel behind me, the echo lost in the blackness. “That's right, Morgan embodied God so convincingly!”

“There you have the explanation.”

So Morgan Freeman… I congratulate myself briefly on my perfect choice. Hmm, while we're at it: “Just out of curiosity, who else is brought to the table?”

The Creator shrugs his shoulders. “I have to filter a lot here – every generation has a limited range of knowledge and perceptions, determined by individual experiences; personalities who stem from lost history or from distant societies and cultures would mean little to nothing to you...”

After thinking for a moment, Morgan lists: “The current 'hit list' would include, among others: Whoopi Goldberg, Barack Obama, JFK, and sometimes Lionel Messi or Roger Federer – but there are also more sophisticated incarnations, for example Donald Trump. Fortunately, surprising or even ridiculous characters such as Kermit the Frog, Mister Bean, Voldemort or Yoda are very rare...”

I laugh out loud. A first real laugh, after a first real smile – I'm obviously making great progress in dealing with the trauma!

“Yoda from Star Wars?”

Morgan joins in with a grin: “Crazy, isn't it? But convoluted sentence structures are a lot of fun in the end, like: 'Deep the strength of your soul is... ' or: 'Dark the valley you’ve passed through...' ”

One of the people mentioned makes me feel vaguely uneasy. “But acting as Trump, that doesn't really suit you, the real 'Top Dog'?”

Morgan unconsciously strokes his snow-white suit, seemingly seeking support in its purity. “It's really challenging to portray Donald in a believable way: grinning slightly simple-mindedly but superiorly throughout, spouting confused sentences, making wild claims in droves, radiating an uncompromising will to prevail. Add to that a slightly crazy, subtly threatening look in the pauses between sentences, always ready for bitter revenge – difficult, difficult to pull off!”

A raised finger. “It has to come across as authentic; his typical followers would immediately notice any deviation; they have a keen nose for externals, and crave gestures that signal strength and power. On the positive side, however, you don't have to worry too much about actual content, logic or common sense.”

Morgan winks at me. “In summary, the spirit is perfectly reflected in the grotesque hairstyle.”

My laughter echoes uncontrollably and finally retreats to the starting position of “smile”.

“Okay, let's take stock: I died hard, now I'm dead. All the unspeakable, degrading torments are now just a grey, dull memory, robbed of their sharp substance. I'm young again, feeling happily unharmed and in good spirits.”

I outline our surroundings with a gesture. “I walked through the infamous tunnel. I was striving towards the bright, warm light. I was not vaporized by electricity like a fly drunk on light. I am standing before my Creator, who even dressed up for me and has a refreshing sense of humor.”

I let my hand fall. “And now I am just a soul.”

Morgan shakes his head slightly. “You can safely leave out the ‘just’: the soul is your essence. Because in the end, only the soul counts – the rest was and is the rough, burdensome gray slag that accumulates over the course of your life. Like one of those monstrously bulky diving suits with small peepholes in the bronze helmet that has to be worn underwater, but is immediately thrown off on land with a sigh of relief.”

I take a deep breath and ask the crucial question – as I have just learned from the center of my essence: “And now what?”

The Creator places a reassuringly warm, firm hand on my shoulder. A friendly pressure guides me deeper into the light and accompanies his words.

“That's entirely up to you...”

2

SMALL TALK IN WING CHAIRS

Morgan leads me into the heart of the light. Overwhelming white on white – beneath me, above me, around me. In me? We cast no shadows. I instinctively close my mouth and narrow my eyelids to slits so that the white does not penetrate me any further than necessary.

With a sideways glance at Morgan: “I like the pure, Scandinavian style of living, but isn’t that a bit too much white?”

“Oh, there would be a lot to see here! True wonders! Magic! Unfortunately, you can only perceive what your mind is capable of interpreting – and at this stage, at least, that is practically... well, nothing. Actually, abysmal black would be appropriate. But from experience, this choice of color is rather frightening.”

I immediately agree. “Ah! Then let’s stick with white.”

I am guided loosely but firmly by the upper arm, as I move uncertainly in this contourless environment without any fixed points. In addition to the reassuring hand, I have smooth, solid ground under my feet, but for the time being I resume my old man's shuffling gait, which I had just discarded, so as not to trip clumsily over any invisible obstacles.

In front of us, a flat door with a matte chrome handle begins to stand out from the monotony. It almost comes across as a welcome splash of color. Only subtly darker lines reveal the shape of the door frame. Morgan turns to me. ”Open the door... I'm curious to see what setting you've chosen for our conversation."

I raise my eyebrows. “Unconsciously again, I assume?”

“Correct.”

How well do I know myself? Let's find out! I rummage through my mental movie and book library for the right setup. The striking face of Jeff Bridges floats up.

“I'm guessing 'The Big Lebowski'. The scene with the seemingly superficial conversation with the greying, wise cowboy at the bowling bar. With the dialogue hiding philosophical depth in the subtext...”

Morgan shows off a truly masterful poker face. “We'll know shortly." Then a mock, brief shudder. “I just hope it's not Dumbledore's quirky office at Hogwarts again. Too much distraction from magical gimmicks – we need focus.”

I take a deep breath, unconsciously holding it – and after thinking for a moment, I touch the handle. Briefly at first: We've all learned from firefighter TV shows to test for possible heat first – after all, hell can't be far away!

I get an amused snort from the Creator. In return, he gets a narrow sideways glance from me, which makes him smile even more.

Well then. I turn the handle, carefully pull the door open and take a first taste of the room: the complete opposite of sterile white, giving it contour and stability. A spacious room with a high ceiling, smelling slightly stale, similar to the older English hotels I used to stay in for work. A little dim, with gentle notes of subtle mustiness. Surrounded by old-fashioned, dark wallpaper, swollen with moisture and drooping sadly in places.

In the middle, two rather worn, brown leather wing chairs invite to a (hopefully) cozy conversation. They are comfortably arranged in front of a wide, antique-looking fireplace, in which no pig turning slowly on a spit could complain of claustrophobia. Between the chairs is a narrow, three-legged table with a full glass of water on it.

I recognize the scene! From the Matrix! When Morpheus explains to a novice like me (the even more wrinkle-free Neo, at this point still without any kung fu knowledge) that he is actually an ignorant slave, a slave of the mind. Hmm, the scene is not bad either – in fact, excellent, when I recall the dialogue!

Morgan also seems to be satisfied. He nods approvingly and politely asks me to come in and take a seat. In the armchair to the right of the fireplace, of course – we want to stay in character. The soft upholstery is very welcome now. The back cushion is comfortable and I gratefully let some of my tension slide into the armrests.

My gaze wanders casually around the room, I have to find my center first. Finally, as if by chance, I meet the Creator's steady gaze. We look at each other in silence. One minute, two. I notice that he doesn't have to blink. Ever. Minutes seem endless – but his relaxed expression conveys that he is waiting for me to be ready.

Then I feel that the beginning of what is probably the most important conversation of my life, of my soul's existence, is hanging palpably in the air.

Morgan begins in a routine manner, diligently stacking his slender fingers until they form an elegant, isosceles roof in front of his chest. “You naturally have a lot of questions. But we will pragmatically limit ourselves to topics that concern you. Because unfortunately your knowledge and intellectual potential is not sufficient for most of the basic concepts. You lack the mental capacity and, above all, the context. You would hear, but not understand.”

Now wait a… come on, I'm no idiot! I humbly reply: “Could I perhaps have an example?”

Morgan shakes his head regretfully but emphatically. “I would like to point out that I have had numerous conversations with recognized geniuses and philosophers, including Einstein, Newton, Da Vinci, Galileo, Confucius, Socrates, Archimedes and a few others. They were all equally skeptical, but in the end they faced the dry facts.”

I see... Then I'd rather not embarrass myself. To save some dignity, I keep a straight face. “I accept the restriction on topics, with reservations.”

Morgan smiles knowingly and offers consolation: “We will address some quite staggering facts in a way that is generally understandable, as they concern you.”

I guess I'd better nod meaningfully more often? You don't want to look like you're being limited. Hope may die last, but pride is always reliably among the last gunslingers still standing.

Oh yes, before we forget: It wasn't hope that died last, but me.

I open: “Do you receive each arriving soul personally? And in such detail?”

Morgan raises his hands defensively, shuddering slightly. “Goodness, no... time is of no importance here and I can multitask practically without limits – but I only deal with the exceptions.”

[ Gulp ] Exceptions can be interpreted either way! Safety lies in numbers. Outside of norms and normality, you stand out and become visible. And vulnerable, whether as an idiot or a genius. Or, depending on the situation, as a believer or an unbeliever?

With a slightly dry throat: “So I’m an exception?”

“Yes. Because the vast majority of souls arrive with rigid beliefs and fixed expectations. They know no doubts, believe they possess the immutable truth. They ride unswervingly, rigidly looking ahead, on the warhorse of their non-negotiable knowledge. Their fate is thus predetermined and needs no further coaching.”

Aha! I conclude that my deep-rooted doubts about the tenets of established religions have led me to this room – what an opportunity! I have the prospect of real insights instead of the common, bland mash of faith!

“So you are coaching me because I have always had doubts and I call myself an agnostic?”

Morgan crosses his legs and clarifies: “Because you are an agnostic.”

That clears up this little detail. I just hope that this definitive diagnosis is not used to my disadvantage. Could my deep doubts turn out to be fatal in the end? I swallow dryly again, look longingly at the glass of water on the side table, but don't really trust it.

“And what happens to agnostics? Or even atheists who fundamentally reject God?”

A brief, weighing shake of the palm. “It depends: Souls who expect the void will not be disappointed. But those who are still undecided, like you, have options...”

So I have a choice? I just hope that some of the options will stand out appetizingly from whatever stew it is...

“That's right, I've always wanted to be surprised by the program in the afterlife with an open mind.”

I recapitulate my thoughts: “If nothingness were to follow immediately, I would never know because I would already be gone. But if it were to continue somehow, there were simply too many paths for me with Christianity, Islam, Hinduism and Buddhism, to name just the most important religions. Not to mention the countless splinter doctrines within a religion. I generally distrust the concept of 'religion'. It steadfastly claims to possess the only, ultimate truth. And condemns the 'unbelievers' to eternal damnation, while at the same time preaching love and forgiveness.”

The memory of an insight jumps excitedly up and down in my field of vision, demanding the word. Yes, please? Thanks, it fits: “Doubt gives rise to curiosity, knowledge and progress. Blind faith, on the other hand, gives birth to nothing but ignorance, stagnation and decay.”

I shrug my shoulders. “And suppose that the possible existence after death exceeds the imagination of mankind? Why then invest so much time and thought in vague possibilities? I would rather sit in the rollercoaster ready to go and enjoy the unknown steep dives, banked turns and heady loops – after all, people want to be entertained!”

Morgan confirms with a nod: “As I said, a true agnostic! And we'll deal with the topic of entertainment later.”

“Entertainment?”

A short, determined shake of the head: “Later …”

I look a little confused for a while longer, but Morgan seems to know the trick. Okay, next point: “Before the options are on the table: Can I ask a few questions?”

Morgan sinks a little deeper into the chair, visibly relaxed. “Sure, go ahead... without a ticking clock, we don't have any urgent appointments and I can answer a limited number of questions.”

3

CREATOR ON CREATION

Let’s cover the bases first. “Do you really control every detail in the universe? Do you actually register the fall of any sparrow? Do you trigger the fall? On a whim or because the sparrow's fateful hour has come?”

Morgan carefully uncrosses his long legs and straightens up, now resembling a lecturer in his natural habitat, the classroom. “Ah yes, the ubiquitous parable of the unfortunate sparrow. An image rooted in Christian teaching, but one that only applies to a very limited extent: I could in principle effortlessly observe every living creature, flora or fauna, in its life cycle – but that would be deadly boring.”

As if to ward off unpleasant images, he closes his eyes briefly, shuddering. “Once you've followed the existence of a single naked mole rat or blobfish, that's enough for the proverbial eternity.”

My questioning expression prompts the Creator to immediately snap his right hand. Three-dimensional images of the species appear in front of me, rotating as if on a silver platter, while Morgan looks away, intently examining the fireplace. The blobfish seems to wink at me confidentially. Okay. Superfluous information. “Thank you, that's quite enough.”

The images fade at an irritatingly slow pace. I sincerely hope that my retinas don't hold my curiosity against me in the long run.

Morgan now raises both hands, embracing an imaginary object. “And I never intervene. Remember: I consciously refer to myself as the Creator, not as God.”

His hands now form a bowl. “I create – but I do not maintain what I create.” Morgan looks at me meaningfully and then lets his arms drop down, hands hanging relaxed over the ends of the armrests. He lets himself sink back a little, as if everything is now clear. Or at least should be clear.

At the risk of proving to be slow on the uptake: “How should I understand this, how does it manifest itself in reality?”

Morgan looks at me thoughtfully, he seems to be making an obvious effort to adjust his explanations to the level of my modest intellect.

“Hmm... how about this analogy: Imagine an extremely talentedscientist who cultivates microorganisms or cells in petri dishes. He brings together different components under varying conditions in countless experiments; he plans and hopes that something exciting and useful will emerge. But he is not interested in the fate of individual cells. A clinical observer.”

He concludes calmly, demonstrating clinical coldness: “And petri dishes of unsuccessful experiments are sterilized.”

A slight shiver matching the statement runs down my spine.

I think I was able to follow the analogy, and I will try to summarize: ”So this universe is a successful attempt – one among many failed ones?"

“Correct.”

“And how many dishes have you… sterilized?”

“I don't know, millions? I'm not counting.”

Wow. Impact hit. It takes me a few long seconds before I can continue. “And why is this universe a success?”

“You remember that the entertainment factor is of paramount importance? Yes? Well, it was only in this one petri dish that modern man emerged. And Homo sapiens turned out to be infinitely and uniquely entertaining.”

I am slightly offended at the fact that I am obviously part of a mass of naive clowns; the guild of unwitting wearers of bulbous red noses and trousers that are both too wide and too short, spiced up with grotesque, banana-shaped shoes. “So we are just the fools in the court of the Creator?”

Morgan calms things down with a soothing gesture: “Of course there is a lot of comedy and ubiquitous slapstick – always good for a hearty laugh, I freely admit…”

He seems to dwell in fond reminiscence. “... but no, I mean above all the countless astonishing achievements that arose from the primitive soup I initially stirred up! From cognitive emptiness, man created wonder after wonder.”

Now Morgan is showing enthusiasm for the first time. “Innovations such as the Archimedean screw, the sail, the loom, the steam engine, the combustion engine. Man learned to glide through the air like birds, to scurry across continents and oceans – while sipping champagne comfortably instead of being appropriately afraid. He annihilates murderous bacteria with antibiotics, he splits the atom and is coming ever closer to nuclear fusion. And currently, artificial intelligence is worried about how it can deal with archaic natural stupidity, in a gentle way...”

The Creator sums it up enthusiastically: “Mankind is simply an incomparable cornucopia of surprises and innovation!”

A raised finger underlines the point – the index finger, I would like to mention reassuringly. “As long as I continue to be well entertained, this particular petri dish will stay nice and warm in the oven, carefully incubated and cared for!”

Hmm, why am I not completely reassured?

I ask. “And you never intervened, never secretly, and without looking, gently pushed the wheel with your little finger?”

Morgan raises his hands defensively. “No thanks, I don't want to break the spell. I'm strictly limiting myself to creating and observing.” And mischievously, with his right hand on his heart: “Boy Scout's word of honor!”

Hmm, those were mostly technical achievements. “And how do you like our art and culture?”

Morgan spreads his arms, now with real delight. “I had no idea what I was missing out on for billions of years! I was solely occupied with creating, growing and observing new universes – and of course sterilizing waste.”

Is it just me who thinks this is a bit clinical and shockingly heartless? But I don't want to interrupt the flow of the conversation and concentrate on what's being said again.

“Then – just in the last few seconds, in terms of cosmic time – the common ape evolved into glorious Homo sapiens. Followed by the cognitive revolution, which transformed Homo sapiens into thinking and feeling beings. Groups formed, then hordes and tribes, language emerged – and from that moment on, entertainment began.”

I'm a little skeptical. “Cavemen were already entertaining?”

Morgan nods. “Absolutely! And I couldn't imagine how the whole thing would grow from the first, fine sparks into immeasurable radiance! From simple cave paintings to works of art by Van Gogh, Monet, Picasso! From timid, discordant roaring in front of the fire to works by Mozart, Bach, Vivaldi, the Beatles, Abba, the 'Red Hot Chili Peppers'! From early, simple jokes to successful sitcoms like 'Mr. Ed', 'The Simpsons', 'Friends', 'Two and a Half Men' ...”

The subject of cheerfulness seems to be close to the Creator's heart? “... or cheerful films like 'Love Actually' ... 'The Life of Brian' ... 'Hangover', 'Deadpool'! Imaginative films and books like 'Star Wars', 'Harry Potter' and 'Lord of the Rings'. Or spiritual ones, like the 'Meditations of Marcus Aurelius' or 'Life of Pi'!”

The Creator shakes his head in disbelief. “Out of nothing, an incredible mass of entertainment arose, bubbling ever faster and more densely... and I have only named a few examples matching your life experience. I could of course also mention the Chinese poet Qu Yuan with his Elegies from Chu, compiled in the 2nd century AD. But his long, emotionally charged poems would hardly touch you. As already mentioned, you lack the cultural context, as well as a feeling for the era.”

Hmm, I guess he's right – in general, and especially with Chinese poems. And he seems to have pretty good taste in music, since he didn't mention “Modern Talking.”

[ Warning: If you have never heard of this particular band, consider yourself lucky and better not go looking for excerpts of their art. ]

I agree in spirit – what would life be without art and culture, without humor? The only thing we could rely on would be the bitter spice of vulgar, everyday tragedy. An existence reduced to admiring the sunrise, looking for food, eating and excreting, reproducing, raising children, admiring the sunset, dying – then off into the light.

I mentally go through my favorite books, songs and films and evaluate my recently passed life in a new light. And I realize: It wasn't all bad, not by a long shot.

The Creator, meanwhile, is still shaking his head in amazement. “I never dreamed that I would one day be devouring series on Netflix, tapping my foot to hot funk while creating or impatiently waiting for the next installment of a book series.”

Reflecting, Morgan furrows his brow in a slightly worried manner. “I'm afraid I've become an entertainment junkie and dependent on my ignorant dealers, modern people.”

Morgan concludes the comprehensive overview: “Then there is real life: climate change and its effects. Bitter, brutal wars that bring out the best and the worst in people. Political discussions that tend to bring out the worst in people, especially if, like me, you can read entire novels between the lines. Then of course there are sporting events such as football, soccer, tennis grand slams, racing cars in Formula One or extremely daring, fast descents on long, narrow skis – what do people say?”

He concludes with a cheerful laugh: “Never a dull moment.”

A vague feeling of unease spreads through me. Up until this point, Morgan seemed extremely kind and sensitive... A question is on the tip of my tongue, but I hesitate to voice it.

While the answer would provide deeper insights into the Creator's attitude – an important factor in the upcoming choice of my future, whatever it may be – I do not want to make my position worse by openly criticizing him.

The destination of hell has not yet been explicitly ruled out. One thoughtless insult on my part, and I'm spinning on the spit, screaming, while a cute devil with yellow goat eyes grins wickedly while checking with a rusty spearhead whether I'm already cooked well...

Let's try some subtle criticism. “Well, images of war or scenes of skiers having accidents horrify, rather than urging me to quickly warm up some popcorn during a commercial break.”

Morgan looks at me blankly. The silence stretches. I could hear a needle drop if I had one – but who carries needles around with them all the time? Okay, except for paramedics and drug dealers?

Back to the topic! Have I said too much? Is he weighing me up in these seconds? Is he deciding on an appropriate punishment for my reprimand?

Finally, the Creator continues with a serious expression: “My appearance in human form has an unavoidable disadvantage... The person I am talking to expects 'normal' behavior: human motivation, thought processes and, above all, empathy. This also includes natural reactions such as sadness, joy, disgust, surprise, etc.”

Morgan leans forward slightly in confidence. “But I'm not a human, all these characteristics and reactions are not inherent in me. But that doesn't mean that I'm deceiving you when I laugh with you, for example. The perfect simulation of a human is necessary so that we can communicate at all.”

As if to underline the point, Morgan smiles slightly. “And nothing you say or think will be construed against you. I'm just observing.”

Just to be sure: “And if humanity ever starts to bore you, will our petri dish also end up in the sterilizer?”

Morgan nods regretfully – or at least with the perfect simulation of regret. “Correct, but there is currently no end in sight for the entertainment program – I am very confident that I will be well pleased for a long time to come.”

On the one hand, it's reassuring, but on the other hand, the knowledge that I’m talking to the avatar of an all-powerful entity that can pull the plug on us at any time is oppressive – the confidential atmosphere seems to have evaporated somewhat.

On the other hand, I can speak freely? Morgan promised not to react sensitively, to float above things untouched?

So I ask with confidence: “Then why should you spend time with me? How do I, an average individual, serve your entertainment?”

I lay out my meager lineup: “I know a few lame jokes… Or I could try tap dancing…?”

The Creator visibly comes to life, we seem to be getting closer to the crux of the matter. He waves me off. “It's about something else: The vast majority of arriving souls are automatically led to their specific fate according to their firm conviction. Everything is possible: from instant dissolution – or to put it more nicely, 'largely pain-free transition into nothingness' – to reincarnation.”

Morgan interrupts me before I can interject. “More on that later.”

I have learned that “later” really means later and I silently signal to please continue.

“Thank you. Well, even among avowed atheists there is still a small percentage (4.8%) who doubt 'nothingness'. Among agnostics, on the other hand, there is an astonishing number of souls who secretly rate a certain scenario as somewhat more likely. For example, who rate the probability of reincarnation higher than the concept of 'heaven and hell'. But you belong to the exclusive group of agnostics (1.3%) who really arrive without any expectations and prefer to be surprised.”

The meticulous percentage figures make me a little suspicious – I ask, half jokingly: “Do you employ an open-plan office full of accountants who keep precise records of incoming and outgoing souls, assigned and chosen fates?”

Morgan waves it off: “No need. The facts and figures exist and are available to me at any time. And since, to my delight, humanity invented statistics and later Excel, I can provide precise information at any time and in real time – more examples of outstanding inventions!”

He grins suggestively: “I can also call up a presentation with meaningful graphics?”

[ Brrr ] I well remember lengthy presentations from my professional activities – I answer immediately, with a slight shudder that only slowly subsides: “No, thank you – not necessary.”

Morgan seems slightly disappointed. Wait, he's only feigning slight disappointment! And there are more important things at the moment. “So I can and must choose now?”

“Correct.”

“What are the options?”

“First a question. Can there be only one paradise?”

A test? Or an introductory question? I review the Creator’s statements so far. “Now that all eventualities seem to be covered here, it follows that there should be at least one paradise per religion.”

The Creator tilts his head thoughtfully. “Valid conclusion. But how does paradise present itself within a religion? For example, could a Christian goatherd living in Iraq have the same ideas about paradise as an American Presbyterian? And wouldn't the paradise of a Catholic banker and golfer be fundamentally different from that of a Catholic roofer and hunter?”

I examine the argument from all sides and finally have to agree. “I think I understand. There can be no universally valid paradise. There are too many forms of paradise; shaped by belief, geographical and social environment, culture, age, occupation, hobbies, dreams.”

Morgan smiles contentedly, closes his eyes and rests his head relaxed against the backrest. And after a short time he begins to transform before my disbelieving eyes. To be on the safe side, I retreat further into the chair and lift my feet onto the edge of the cushion to find protection behind my shins – which admittedly seems rather inadequate.

Swiftly, the white suit is replaced by a heavy black leather coat with a high collar. Hmm, looks suspiciously like imitation crocodile leather to me... The skull becomes rounder, the curly hair recedes to a matt-polished bald head. The skin tightens up and looks youthful, but slightly pockmarked. The (I know, simulated) kind eyes are covered by round, dark lenses in which the room is reflected in a distorted way, with me in the armchair. A so-called pince-nez. I have always wondered, however, how sunglasses without any temples are supposed to stay on the nose in a fierce kung fu fight. Heavy black boots give the figure the finishing touch.

The transformation is complete. I say dryly: “Morpheus.”

A new, slightly higher voice answers, emphasizing each syllable individually and precisely. “Correct. And before you ask – yes, you also chose that unconsciously.”

Well, if I have the choice... “Hmm, why can't I unconsciously choose a beautiful woman – for example Demi Moore?”

A stern look. “Concentrate.”

I notice that Morpheus is holding the inevitable pill box in his hand, examining it solemnly as he slowly opens it.

The decision point is approaching.

4

RED PILL, BLUE PILL

I look at the lid’s raised shiny back somewhat disappointed: “So there are only two options, red or blue?”

Morpheus tilts the box slightly and lets me see the contents. Hmm, a colorful mixture of colored pills. “Here we deviate a little from the Matrix script. The number of colors is only limited by your imagination.”

Experience teaches us that too many options are not productive. We often realize this in the supermarket in front of the seemingly endless shelves of breakfast cereals – who needs all the variety? Wouldn't we be better off with a rigorously limited selection?

Let's see: I'll start checking off with the fingers of my left hand.

Thumb: “The void, nothingness – the dissolution of the soul and thereby eternal rest.”

Hmm, eternal rest? Not without its own alluring charm.

Index finger: “Heaven and hell – or more precisely: heaven or hell.”

The middle finger rises bravely (just for the purpose of counting, of course…): “Rebirth.”

Now things are getting tight... Ring finger: “The realm of the dead according to the Egyptian or Greek interpretation.”

Wait a minute! Speaking of ring fingers: where is my wedding ring? I close my eyes, remember it in my mind: its smoothness perfected by the years, its barely perceptible weight – I open my eyes and find it back in its rightful place, nestling comfortingly around the fleshy roundness.

The power of the mind has influence in the afterlife! We will remember this little episode for later exploration; it opens up new possibilities. Where were we?

Little finger. “Hmm… Just continue to exist on LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, etc.?”

Okay, I've obviously run out of serious options.

The appearance of my wedding ring prompts me to ask a question: “Wait a minute: if I only consist of my soul, why do I feel and use my healthy body? It feels youthful, like it did at 36? Why am I dressed decently...”

Comfortable dark jeans and a light grey shirt, I notice with relief, including my beloved, sporty and elegant sneakers. “... and not in the usual dreary, paper hospital gown?”

I expand on the idea. “How can I think if I no longer have a brain with me? How can I hear, see, smell and feel without any sensory organs?”

The answer is not entirely unexpected: “Later... well, depending on your choice. It's time. For now, accept the circumstances as given. And if you choose option one – let's say the red pill – then in the void this information will no longer matter.”

The CEO of the universes is obviously following a fixed script. He summarizes in a businesslike manner, pointing to the corresponding pill with his index finger: “So we have the red pill for nothingness, the blue pill for heaven or hell – the final destination is determined upon entry. Let's say hopeful green for reincarnation. Black for the realm of the dead. And the last option is unfortunately not an option – on Facebook etc. you only live if you constantly post banalities. But you would necessarily be mute and therefore doubly dead: analogous to nothingness, i.e. the red pill – which brings us full circle.”

Morpheus leans forward and, with his index finger busily beckoning, asks me to move a little closer. I cautiously move a few centimeters closer. Long spoon and all. “I still owe you the answer regarding your entertainment value: Well, I made a bet on which of the options you would choose – and I would like to mention that I am right 87.8% of the time.”

He winks at me confidentially and leans back with a composed but somewhat self-satisfied expression. I look at him, aghast. So I'm just a little filler, the ice cream man during the cinema intermission, only good for short, casual and fleeting pleasure?

Rhetorical question: Is it permissible to despise one's creator, slightly seasoned with a pinch of black hatred? Well, I'll take the liberty – and he doesn't seem to mind anyway.

That reminds me! “By the way, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for the numerous savage curses I hurled at you from my deathbed – it was due to the bitter situation. And the incessant, filthy curses were obviously ineffective anyway – apart from my moral relief.”

Morpheus nods with perfect composure. He has obviously seen and heard everything countless times. He gets straight to the point in a businesslike manner and asks the ultimate question: “Well, which pill would you like? Red, blue, green or black?”

He presents the pill box, which now only contains the four pills mentioned. With his other hand he points caringly to the full glass of water – how courteous and considerate of him!

Decisions, decisions... I could have just carried on living! Let's try to buy some more time. “Can I get a little more background on the options? Can we discuss the pros and cons?”

Unwavering like a solitary concrete pillar, one hand continues to offer me the pill box, the other points like a signpost towards the glass of water. “Unfortunately not, you have to decide now.” A subtle, slightly threatening smile can be seen, a hint of mother-of-pearl shimmering through. “Otherwise you will inevitably mess up my betting parameters, and that would be rude...”

Hmm, politeness is known to be a virtue. But so is courage… I feel considerable reluctance to provide only a brief moment of bland entertainment before being allowed to leave the stage to the left like an insignificant supporting actor. I sit back for a moment. Experience has taught me that under imposed time pressure, you make hasty, usually suboptimal and expensive decisions.

I study the relentless Morpheus, fathoming his depths. Truly, no human. Well, I've always had the talent to step back from a problem and evaluate alternative scenarios.

How about this? Ignoring the silent instruction of his hands: “If we look at the situation from all sides, aren't we forgetting another option?”

5

YELLOW PILL

Morpheus seems calm on the outside, but I think I detect subtle annoyance. How will he react to my yellow pill?

But wait – on closer inspection, a yellow pill is rather inappropriate. Yellow is reminiscent of stale urine, of fundamental cowardice. No, instead let’s use a rich, life-affirming color!

“I choose the orange pill.”

Morpheus does not need to examine the contents of the box to state dryly: “There is no orange pill. Are you trying to buy time? What for?”

I rise and stride over to the fireplace, lightly tapping the stone experimentally... rich solidity. I am suitably impressed with my imagination. A thoughtful turn to the Creator.

“The unnamed option is not to take any of the pills offered. I assign that option to the orange pill.”

The Creator looks into the pill box, a little perplexed. I suspect that something orange is now materializing in there on silent feet. The power of the mind. His cool composure is showing first, delicate cracks. “This is a bit of a surprise...”

He tilts the pill box so I can see the contents – and there it is, the extra, magnificent orange pill. Point for the visiting team!

I walk slowly to the container, bend over it to examine it, and pick up the orange pill. I hold it up briefly in admiration before popping it in my mouth and washing it down with a sip from the glass of water. Let's establish facts right away.

Morpheus shakes his head, a little lost – but then quickly pulls himself together. The corners of his mouth lift. “But this is much more entertaining than I could have hoped! We're moving from a trivial bet into completely new territory!” He now seems appropriately excited. “What's your plan?”

A plan, a plan, I need a plan! “I'm just about to roll out the corners and then decorate them nicely with marzipan. In other words – I need a little more information.”

Morpheus spreads his arms. “What do you want to know?”

Where to start… Perhaps with this? “I once read that about 108 billion people have lived since the beginning of humanity – of course this is a rough estimate, plus or minus a few billion.”

Morpheus has the numbers to hand. “Of course, it is debatable from which generation the count should begin. And the researchers had to juggle factors such as average life expectancy. Or estimate the influence of epidemics and wars. But the number given is pretty close to the actual figure, it is in the plus-minus range of 5.4%.”

Aha. What I'm getting at is: “But where are all these souls stored? Haven't heaven and especially hell been overflowing for a long time? Do people not stand on each other's wings or on their pierced limbs? Is the surplus disposed of in the void with simulated regret? Or do reincarnations provide relief?”

Morpheus looks like a contentedly purring cat with fresh mouse breath. As if he wanted to pat himself on the back – he obviously can't wait to enlighten me.

“No, my solution is much more elegant… You have been working as an IT specialist for almost 40 years, right?”

Recalling my long, varied career, I raise my chin slightly and almost give into the urge to pat my own shoulder benevolently. “Well, I specialized in relational databases.”

“Details. But you are certainly very familiar with the concept of virtual machines – ‘VMs’ for short?”

[ You don't know what VMs are? Tsk, tsk. Well, Google can tell you as usual, but here's a short definition for the impatient reader: VMs are virtual computers that offer the same functions as physical computers. Just like physical computers, they run an operating system (like Linux or Windows) and applications. The advantage is that several VMs can be run in parallel on one physical computer and share the available resources. This means that different operating systems and applications can be hosted in parallel on just one physical computer. Greater flexibility with better use of the hardware. The concept is used extensively in the cloud. You're welcome! ]

I reply: “Of course… But don’t tell me you’re running VMs on Amazon or the Azure Cloud!”

A bright laugh, an imaginary, cheerful tear in the corner of the eye is wiped away. “Good one! No, that is really not necessary. My universes draw from a virtually infinite pool of ‘computing power’: mind, we are only talking about the concept – but we can use the term 'VM' as a substitute.”

“Okay, now I’m really curious.”

Morpheus beckons me closer confidentially and lowers his voice mysteriously. “Every requested variant of the afterlife runs in its own VM, a perfect simulation. I operate several thousand such VMs in order to offer every faith and every belief a vessel for the expected existence in the afterlife.”

It takes me a few seconds to grasp the elegance of this truly comprehensive solution. “So there is, for example, a simulation of heaven and hell in which all the righteous and sinners of Christian doctrine end up?”

The Creator doesn't need to say yes, his brief blink says it all. “Except that, to stick with your example, there are distinct simulations for heaven and hell. The two environments are too different.”

“But… that’s… brilliant!”

In well-played modesty: “No more than one could expect from the Creator…”

I am still struggling to put the advantages of the concept into words: “This means that all religions and beliefs are right, that democracy and freedom of belief will prevail in the afterlife, so to speak!”

Another conclusion makes me laugh a little: “But that also means that all the bloody religious wars and the bitter theological struggle for interpretative sovereignty were completely unnecessary. And still are…”

Morpheus corrects with a gently raised index finger: “Well, not entirely: they ultimately continue to serve to a not inconsiderable extent for my entertainment.”

That's right, let's never lose sight of the Creator's oh-so-important entertainment!

A question arises: “Let’s take the Christian faith – who conducts the triage, which court decides whether someone ends up in heaven or hell?”

“That's the trick – the arriving soul has already unconsciously decided whether it deserves heaven or is condemned to hell anyway. Like a finely calibrated internal scale that swings left or right. Accordingly, there is no need for external jurisdiction, the system works fully automatically.”

Morpheus now digs out the inevitable small print. “Of course, this system is not perfect either, there are an insignificant number of outliers to the left and right – or in this case, more appropriately: up and down. For example, despotic, power-hungry narcissists who clearly deserve eternal torment in hell, but have a pleasant time in heaven because they gloss over their sinful lives and shabby souls in boundless vanity and ignorance. On the other hand, there are the basically good souls who assess the ratio between their sins and their good deeds far too pessimistically and thus unnecessarily end up in the slightly overheated basement.”

Interesting! Examples would be helpful here... Hmm, who would be considered a self-absorbed despot and veritable monster? Among the dead, of course. “On which of the two beaches did, say, Adolf Hitler wash up?”

Morpheus waves it off. “Bad example. Hitler only exploited the Christian faith. In the 1920s he tried to portray Christ as a staunch Germanic, as part of the 'ethnic Aryanization'. After taking power he dropped the mask and propagated his quasi-religion, 'Die Vorsehung’, which means providence, of which he himself was both the proclaimer and executing tool. He cobbled together his own theology, so to speak.”

A slight shake of the head. “He doesn't fit into any of the known patterns. I also had to isolate him for security reasons; his nature is still driven by inexhaustible ambition.”

The Creator's hands form a small cage. “He was assigned his own little VM, together with a handful of iron disciples, who are also simulated. Since then he has sat alone, surrounded by pale sycophants and yes-men in the gloomy Führerbunker, brooding doggedly over maps of Berlin and Europe – the Führer does not give up that easily. He moves nonexistent divisions here and there, while the Russians come ever closer but never do arrive. He mutters constantly to himself, lamenting about the treacherous German people who let him down miserably. About bumbling generals who cannot or do not want to implement his superior genius on the field of honor. He often rubs his left temple thoughtfully – at night he wakes up in his sleep, dreaming that he has put a bullet in his head. And he bitterly misses his German shepherd, Blondi. And Eva too. Both of them took the opportunity to escape to another afterlife.”

Sounds pathetic! Nevertheless, hell would have been much more appropriate! He wouldn't have been so lonely there, but would at least have found himself in the illustrious club of other “personalities” of his level.

One conclusion suggests itself: “Can I conclude from this that there are no gods, like the Christian God? And no antagonists, like Satan?”

The Creator wags his index finger in a didactic manner. “But of course they exist – even if only virtually!”

Virtually? A simulation isn't real! My doubts are easy to read; Morpheus delves deeper into the topic: “You surely remember numerous vivid dreams that created extensive, lifelike, tangible and tactile worlds?”

“Well… yeah, sure.”

“Worlds that are impossible to distinguish from reality?”

“Yes?”

Morpheus digs deeper: “Even if physically impossible phenomena occurred in the dream – for example, the ability of your body to fly? Or to breathe underwater?”

“That’s right, you register it with mild surprise, but you accept it as completely normal.”

The Creator gets to the point. “You created these worlds in your mind, thus they have acquired existence, have gained substance. And when millions of believers agree on a fact, a belief, when they build on it unshakably... then they can easily create a god and an antagonist – and keep them 'alive' for a long time. Whether an existence is virtual or 'real' makes no difference.”

Although I still have legitimate doubts, I politely reply: “I still have to get used to the idea, but I can understand it from a logical point of view.”

“That’s good.”