Yes, I’m here. I suppose you want me to say something profound to prove that I’m here. Not necessary. I can equally say something trite if proof of presence is required. Here goes:
My belly is like a watermelon from all the food and drink I’ve put inside it. Last thing at night, when no-one else is watching, much less myself, I stuff and stuff and stuff myself to try to find that feeling of cool emptiness that I know only comes from being empty. I’m a goshdarned contradiction, that’s what I am. Brush your teeth and go to bed, Robert. You’ve done enough.
That’s it. That’s my proof of being in the world. That’s what anchors me to the here and now: my belly. And it’ll be gone by the morning at which point I’ll start again.