My honesty disappoints me, cloying and saccharine and harsh and unbalanced all at once. Whatever I write asks to be smoothed into something more and more true, shaped in the image of ... something, an internalization of externality.
There are so many truths in the guise of falsities and untruthful truths expected of us, I can't get anywhere with them. My words are an inscrutable string of reduplicating mirrors answering each other into the distance.
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