For once, truth herself or himself or themself, depending on your love-affair with truth, truth itself, for what it’s worth, spoke out. The voice was nothing like a bell like some had imagined, at least nothing like a musical bell; if a bell at all, it was the sound of a cracked bell of a ruin somewhere whose song was ruined too. Truth said, Go on, say it–say it! Say what you are thinking, what your heart and head thinks: I am not what you were after and dreamed of all this time, you see what little manners and decorum, what little respectability I have when my mouth opens. You wish I hadn’t opened it; you wish I had stayed like all the best truths: tight-lipped.
Love the Dust 