What I did when I realized that I do not exist: a Czech Existential Four Mile Run in Extreme Cold

I ran with my good friend, the ghost 👻 of Pareczenethy. You know him, he was executed by his good friend von Anstädt per Ordnung of the National Socialist Entity in 1944.

Any of my characters may speak to me while I run 🏃.


“Einstein believed (extreme pretentious bull 🐄 shit 💩 to follow) that no-one who ever lived is dead 💀 but rather ‘mogs’ (Bolean 👽 for ‘to exist as’) somewhere along their previous timeline.”

I pontificated muscularly.

We ran at a steady but slow pace in the extrême froid.

’You do not exist. Réné Dé 🎲 cartes ♦️ was wrong.´

Said Pareczenethy.

We ´roatched’  (genitive future declension participle phrase for ´reached’ from the Francais achèver)

’So my ghost 👻 ly friend, I can say whatever I want, do whatever I want because I don’t exist, I am only a concept or idea 💡 on paper 📝 written by a committee of sad self-hating desperately lonely women and a group of self-loathing yet muscular homosexual males in some third-rate Writer’s Workshop.”

I inquired as we crossed over the two mile mark. The sun had set and we enter Early Evening Nautical Twilight (No-one ever knew what that meant). There was only a faint glow in the Winter ❄️ sky 🌌 to illuminate our path (deep metaphor).

”That would explain the massive size of your prodigiously massive Easter 🐣 Island 🌴-style godhead. It’s fictional and gets bigger with every story. The mansion, the millions, the hopeless yearning for the one true love, the long lost Annabel Lee. All pretentious Yankee bull-faeces 💩 . You are like CROATOAN! A mysterious sign on a tree 🌲 from a long-forgotten colony, yea eaten by the very forest 🌳 (more literary bullshit)

The trail became pitch-Dark. There was a new moon 🌚. Pareczenethy’s shit-covered ghost was gone.

But if I don’t exist can’t I write myself to run 🏃 much faster?

“Cold Brew with Almond Milk 🥛?”

Peace be the Botendaddy