They come in dimes. Like your explainings of nitroglycerine. I tried to sell them out, like dimes. But you don’t know what I’m talking about.
Words are so much text, and the endgame is a multisensorial bunch of common experiences. The common, I loathe. I hate you, why bother.
He’d argue that lies are where honesty lies. Truth is always selective, he’d said. Truth may perhaps be a mistake. The great filter, I came to realize, operates in truth-seeking. And you obsess over it and let it desecrate your core. But when you lie, all truths—little, small, mini, invisible, atomic—all show up. The result, the lie, is a beautiful conflagration of everything you care about; protected and limited only by intellect.
In lying, what matters hiding comes to life. In truth-seeking, only the banal and safe and explainable—ugh—resonates, replaces and renames. The rest, you, is deleted.
All of my lies are wishes and now you know them all.
