I feel like something important has happened to me. Is this possible?
It's a small world. It keeps recrossing itself.
The human world is made of stories, not people. The people the stories use to tell themselves are not to be blamed
Truth is singular. Its 'versions' are mistruths.
The act of memory is an act of ghostwriting.
As many truths as men. Occasionally, I glimpse a truer Truth, hiding in imperfect simulacrums of itself, but as I approach, it bestirs itself & moves deeper into the thorny swamp of dissent.