most truths are so naked that people feel sorry for them and cover them up, at least a little bit.

 

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 sometimes reality is like a book left on the lawn in the middle of autumn. wind blows it up and tosses its pages back and forth, the pages we dare not read, afraid of what they may hide. drops fall from far above, soaking the black letters and in the end only remains a gray mixture of what once formed life. not the illusion of life, but life itself. but then, then it is too late.