In the one universe I think I'm in, I'm having a cigarette. It's been a long day filled with fruitless nothings. I've gone to work. I've clocked in at 9 and have clocked out by 5. I've driven home from work. I took a nap wearied by nothing to be really weary about. I wake up. A friend calls. We enjoy a comfortable and comforting evening together. She takes me home. I'm enjoying to rain. It washes away all the secular sins of the world. I'm going to bed. The days seem endless, monotonous and infinite.
In the other universe, my day is starting. I have a pen. I have paper. I write and occasionally drift off into a doodle. There's a tremendously chaotic and wonderful world before me and I have only this bare moment in time to collect my thoughts before I get lost in them. The days seem only infinite.
I don't know what goes on in the other world. Theoretically it's impossible for us to interact. It would be dangerous for us to interact. In my world, you forever ask someone how they are doing. In theory, this would only be self-destructive. I let her go writing in peace. She has a busy day ahead of her.