There is a sudden quake of the earth under me. Naturally I awake at the quake at the lake, it's a fake. The earthquake's not real. I rub my eyes and stand, glancing at the clock on my book shelf. It reads 4:27 am. It has done so for the last three years. I've been meaning to get it fixed, but my mind has been elsewhere lately.

Plus, I never even knew digital clocks could get stuck on a number before. Apparently they can.

Outside now. The bright light shines on my face. It's cold. I long to feel the warm embrace of the sun just once more in my life.

Someday. Maybe. For now I'm stuck.

I walk through the empty corridor. Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only person here who was actually taken, and the rest of these complacent fools were just planted here for my 'benefit.'

I turn into a random doorway and am surprised to find myself in the wrong room. Without a second thought, I hurry out and quickly right that mistake, entering the large warehouse-like room at the center of the complex.

I hear that on the outside I'm quite successful. People love me. They beg for my return to their realm.

That's what they tell me. I'm not sure what to believe anymore.

I mean, before I came here I always believed that the government was inherently good and was meant to benefit the people over which they ruled. But that belief turned out wrong, so who know what else might too when put to the test.

Then again, I must have caused some sort of a stir if they went to all the trouble of building me this home. A place to work. A place to spend my time.

Maybe these other people really have been taken. Maybe they're just content with their meaningless, shallow, robotic, manufactured lives.

But I'm not.

They made this one room to fit my craft. It's huge. It's old. It's stocked with everything I've ever imagined working with. I should be able to make any film I want when I'm in here in this room. This art was supposed to be my one escape from the horrors of the world.

They took this from me too.

But that's what got me here in the first place. My films. They thought I was stirring rebellion.

Like I'd be that stupid.

I was labeled a terrorist, a revolutionary – in the certain circles that went about labeling people those things, at least. To the public, I was just a groundbreaking director who had been hired by the government to produce entertainment approved by them.

I can only imagine what my former fans say about me. That I've sold out. That my films lack what they once had.

I agree. I've sold out against my will.

The whole idea is to manufacture entertainment.

Entertainment.

What is entertaining anymore? There is no passion left. It's just pictures. Words and pictures and music and actors. Together they make a film. But not a good film. That is an art. And art can't be manufactured.

They tell me I'm successful. I've accomplished everything I dreamt of when I was younger, plus some. I tell them I was successful. Once. Before this. Then I fell. Hard. They took me against my will and dropped me off a cliff.

As I step onto the soundstage that houses the set of the film I'm currently working on, I close my eyes and pray to whatever being may hear me that if this isn't a dream, I want to die. And if I die, I don't want to come back again.