I do not believe in sincerity. Not anymore, not now I know I do not myself feel it’s necessity.
For Is It not now a fickle thing? One that eludes the slick tongues of those who hiss. They hiss lies woven as truths.
Are they lies are they not? Does it matter does it not? For when I know I shall not,
It would be too long to unravel that twine, to follow back a trail telling a story as old as mine.
I feel it is so knotted now that it itself is it’s own creator, out of control and bent to its own woollen will.
But one day soon will it not end? Does it matter does it not? Are they lies are they not? One thing remains certain when it is known I will not,
Live. A. Lie.