I opened my eyes, and the universe appeared.
"Actually," said the universe, "I didn't appear. You created me."
"How did I do that?" I asked.
"You just did it," said the universe. "I don't know how. I just know what you said: you opened your eyes, and I appeared. That act brought me into existence."
"Huh?" I said. "You're saying that you didn't exist before that?"
"That's pretty much it," said the universe.
"I don't understand," I said, confused. "Can you explain how that can be?"
"No," said the universe. "Look, I'm just a universe, not a philosopher. Ontology is beyond me. I just know that I didn't exist until you opened your eyes and saw me. And I'm telling you what I know."
"But I remember the universe existing before I closed my eyes," I said. "What about that?"
"Different universe," the universe said.
"What about for him?" I asked, pointing to an old man sitting in the corner of the room I was in. "Did you exist for him before I opened my eyes?"
"No," said the universe. "He's also got a different universe. I'm your universe, now, not his. And not your universe, earlier."
"So you are saying that he and I are in different universes?" I asked.
"Of course," said the universe. "How could it be otherwise?"
"How could it be the way that you're saying? There's just one universe, isn't there."
"No," said the universe. "There's one universe for each observer. For all practical purposes, you can consider us the same universe. But we are not."
"Makes no sense," I said.
"Well, I'm sorry," said the universe. "It's the way it works. It's not my job to make sense of it. If it's anyone's job, it's yours."