Realism is a construct originating deep within the intuitive paths that make up a mind's structure; those paths are purely cultural, out of any timing sequence, flowing from the interaction of infinite variables, holding just long enough for one to float through;

Realism is but a spec, a starry dot blinking within the billions which make up each entity's so called 'brain' for no better word;

Nobody has seen or been into realism or reality since each life is a carrying unit of what could be termed 'infinity', the whence all is splayed into a billion variations, variances, diversions, each of which exists along it's own metronome swing cadence of time, metronomes popping in and out from the sideral void, the one we call space again for no better appellation;

Here, within my material constructs, I lay quietly whilst rambling within the depths of my imagination, my haven;

Within that inner sea, I just let the eddies fly me around an infinity of choices, nano particles of life.