guess what, captain? the certain unreality doesn't care for salt!! so we hurl every gram of nacl we can find into its skyline maw. for good measure we pepper it also with fancy gadgets, you know, phasers, communicators and the like, just whatever we can dig up out of our interstellar catalog of goodies, we upend Santa's sack and poor it all in there, expecting it to shrivel, choke, be impressed, or die. we're geeked up and bloated for our efforts, boy are we exhausted, but it all will have been worth it, as long as— captain, bad news!! the emptiness only grows! no matter what bombardments of artifacts of precious reality, nothing can make it turn real! well, then stop! what about the opposite? starve it; ignore it! we'll try it.... [soon] ah, nope. still, it grows. it grows. it grows. (2015)