The world around me is a construct built for the sole purpose of testing the responses of its sole occupant. You have all done a remarkable job of playing your designated roles as a part of this test. Many of you seemed almost real. I don't think I can continue to to hide the fact that I've become aware of the cracks in reality, though. I could overlook a hastily painted prop in the distance or a building that wasn't there a moment before. The problem is the masters.
I don't know what they're really called, but they blew it. I can hear the thoughts of the invisible kitten-headed psychoanalysts as they manipulate reality. I hear them thinking that it won't be long now, that they can't wait until the test ends and they can finally get on with the disection, and that all this becan will give the human the perfect flavour...
They appear to be reading over my shoulder now, because I now hear them thinking that they're going to wipe the last few minutes from my memory, slap me around for awhile, then have someone call me into an office to tell me that We Need to Talk.
It's all about me, but, of course, you knew that already. Your denial is well rehearsed and is almost believable.
Here they come now...