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The universe is probably a big dark blue fabric sofa full of dust and lint and rotten biscuit crumbs, standing next to an old floor lamp, with the corpse of an old anon decomposing on it, which some organism on one of the rotten biscuit crumbs assumes to be the creator of the universe. We perceive no more of the macrocosm that surrounds us than insects perceive of our world or, like a cat in a library, know nothing of the books or the words within. We cannot interact with it, we are very small in it, so tiny itty-bitty that we cannot even see the dark blue fabric sofa we are on.
