Trumped (Mind at the End of its Tether)

There is no essay to be written.

There is no diatribe to be screamed.

There is no prolegomena to any metaphysics waiting to be declaimed.

Nothing true has been said or stretched.

All said has been lied.

No question is yet to be answered.

The liar will not say: I lied.

Instead: You don’t understand me. You are a liar if I cannot tell you what I really mean without you telling me I am a liar since I have defined what you can tell me is the truth.

There are baskets and baskets of deplorable lies.

Lies, like rotten fruit, are something no one likes, especially in the mouths of liars who like to accuse others of lying.

No one likes to lie, or to be lied to, except for liars. Liars love to be lied to.

It’s fruit for liars and makes them feel alive, at ease with the only people they can trust not to lie.

To lie is a sin.

Liars like the feeling of having sinned, and gotten away with it.

Most people lie, little lies, few ever confess. Some do, some don’t.

Everyone knows a liar. Except liars. They could not exist if other liars truly existed.

We know one when we hear one. He’s lying. She’s lying. What is true?

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