It is supposed to be the highest form of information. It is a precious thing, essential. We need truth like we need air… don’t we? Why is there a layer of obscurity over everything? Is truth too raw? Does it scald our senses? Truth is our vitality, but I spend my time on the other side. In a vacuum where only pockets of the truth survive. It is the void where lies and obscurity are thick and what is true twinkles in the distance. Not unobtainable, but so far out of reach that living in such a light is a dream seldom had. It is surreal. Attempts at honesty are stage plays. Holding up a mirror, perhaps, but one that is warped and equally deceptive.