Once upon a time, a French chap named René Descartes was messing around with psychedelics and dug himself a hole. The problem was, he’d had a dream the previous evening. It was one of those hyperrealistic ones that your body reacts to as if it were really happening. Floating through the cosmos on a mushroom spaceship, he found himself asking the same question he had in his dream: “Is this real? What is real?” The questions plagued him for days afterwards. He reached the conclusion that the only thing he could confirm with 100% certainty was that he existed. He thought, therefore he had to be. Everything else could be a dream, a simulation, or a decades-long acid trip. I have a sneaking suspicion that, as a society, we're reaching our Descartes moment..