I have solved the riddle of existence, and it’s like this: life is, in the most literal sense imaginable, what you make it. There is only a ghost in a machine and it is us; there is no other.
Everything is inherently completely hollow. Everything is made of information, which does not really exist. Nothing is real. We’re all just making this up as we go along. I shit you not. Things aquire energy according to the energy which is afforded to them by the perceiver(s).
Voila, the world is over.
Whether this constitutes a tragic or a happy ending – or just the ‘meh’ to end all ‘meh’s – is, most appropriately, left as an exercise for the reader.