What was a life anyway? An accumulation of small shelves of incident.
I'm of the opinion that the real is imagined and the imagined is quite real. The real is imagined, in the sense that we shape our stories, so anything that even happens on the news gets shaped in a certain way and gets a texture, and that the imagined can be real.
The repeated lies become history, but they don't necessarily become the truth.
There is always room for at least two truths.
The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough.
Let it be. Silly song, really. You let it be, it returns. There's the truth. You let it be, it drags you to the ground. You let it be, it crawls up your walls.