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Think about it. We coast through our lives, hung up on moments: That man has a runny nose! That one likes to trap lightning bugs in a jar! Here's one that eats candy for money! What should we do? Every moment confounds us. We have trouble knowing what to think: Do I like Lightning bugs? Is it okay to blow my nose in public? Often times we substitue our true instincts for rehearsed actions that we assume to be more palatable for those extremely different souls we so often encounter during the moment. Which is to say, we lie about who we are. Out of necessity, more often than not. Say, for instance, your aunt Gertrude asks you for a pair of wire-cutters, knowing full well that she'll only use them to scrape the plaque off her teeth, and, knowing that the steel is rather harsh on the sheen, you innocently explain to her that your ferret has been hoarding your important tools in some dark corner of the house for reasons as yet unknown to you and that no, you cannot lend her your wire-cutters. You have no idea where they are. Of course, you don't have a ferret.
Was this a lie? Or was it fiction?
I say neither. This is an honest case of honesty (yuk yuk yuk). Those wire cutters were tied up in the hemp fibers of a brand new interactive art project that you cared not to share with her at that particular moment. It wasn't done yet. What Aunt Gertrude doesn't know will never hurt her.
So I say honesty is fiction, or rather fiction is honesty. I wouldn't have anything to talk about otherwise; I'd be lying through my teeth. Oh yeah, I'm really high.