After the drill of social punctilios, when curtains are drawn, the blah
blah of bovarism lies peeled in hearts willing to eavesdrop on themselves.
Therapy of truth unveils its secrets: we know our lies better than all
the light there is. After a mortise level on laminate of life, it is meaningless
to tend to every kernel of truth. Attempts to amp this will end in ache.
The key is to find your centre. If there were a panopticon edge to one’s script
there wouldn’t be need for prophets. To be famed for clerihews is meta.
Synesthesia bedrocks all impulse. What is the color of your grief?
Pain isn’t proprietary, join the party.

Originally published at Lemon Hound.