For such a wild theory, the Balladeer barely seems to react. Instead, he lifts his arm from his face, tilts his head, and peers in the direction of the television without really seeming to see it.

"History, story," he says, turning away again after a moment. "Same thing after a while. 'S no audience here, so this is probably realer." There never has been, to the point that he stopped looking for them months ago. He can't even see the space where they used to exist, but he hasn't yet lost that trick of the eyes that let him distinguish it to begin with. The absence was one of the first things he noticed when he arrived; he just never let it bother him terribly. Before, working himself into an existential crisis when he so clearly did exist hadn't seemed worth it.

As it turns out, his physical presence is maybe not the sure sign of reality he thought it was.

Reaching down, he fishes around for a bottle. Greta's moved them, though, and the ones here were probably all empty anyway. "'Smore in the kitchen, I think. Didn't know what I wanted." If he bought enough alcohol, surely he'd hit on at least one he liked.