truth is a spurious devil.
Truth tells our febel mind that it is correct. A sinister whisper falling on the footsteps of an
What color are your leaves. Is it your autumn or your fall. In what particular circumstance and fleeting attitude are you embracing this day , this season? Your truth is no more relevant than the color of ink on this virtual screen. What you possess is the greatest farce of the human race. Lucid is the dream that you are in, real is the play unfolding before your delicate, feeble mind. Your truth is no more or less collective reality than that of Hitler's.
How much do I know? I know all that I have lived. I know all that has been told to me through a perpetually jaded filter of a life lived by those with regrets. I have a lifetime of tainted and otherwise corrupt memories salting the streets of my feeble mind. I have little more than a drowning chance of knowing what truth is than any mislead creaton which exposed themselves to the realities of humanity as any other. I know no truth. I know only what has been feed to me. I know only one more thing than most, I know that I know no truth.
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