A sadness that I implore.
It is sweet yet, indignating.
Why, you might ask?
The truth is …
There is no truth once you are God.
Everything is true.
To the criminal who ***** and killed his daughters
To the dying voices of the martyr mothers who protected their family.
Foucault says it too.
It is true. What is better than truth?
That question will end the day we realise that we are all true.
Even in the art of lying, there is a truth.
There is pukka.
There is an inexplicable oneness.
It is unappeasable.
One has to accept it.
Even your murderer has a point.