I am reading the most earth-shattering, heart-breaking, mind-fucking masterpiece that I have ever read. And I have read many a book. It's called "House of Leaves" and is about a man who discovers a trunk of papers in an old dead man's apartment, and he constructs the book we're reading. The papers turn out to be the old man's commentary on a film that doesn't actually exist. We know this author has constructed a narrative out of ficticious subject not only because he hints at this himself at the very beginning, but because we discover he has coffee with Pierre Menard, author of the Quixote :P The film is about a man who discovers a hallway in his house that cannot possible exist, because the physical dimensions of the house do not allow for it.
At any rate, this novel has made me think about the different levels of reality. Reality is certainly a construct of our senses, but it is more than this. In it is contained the very nature of unreality. Reality exists, because it does not NOT exist. But it does not exist, in the fact that it also isn't. But what it isn't, it is and must be. Where it isn't it is soon to become. Reality is the macrocosm in which even unreality figures. Or perhaps, more accurately, Unreality is the macrocsom in which even reality figures.