The times I’ve lied by omission vastly outnumber those of downright falsification but I’m not sure which is heavier though my guess if I had to and I don’t but I will is the weigh station counts them all the same
and I can honestly say, without omission without falsification, that I’ve heavy-held myself down long enough to pay for all deceits and even probably I think I’d say I paid for a few I’ve not yet committed to omit and in sum total my being’s lighter now, unloaded and still unloading but not by any means emptying out for chrissake I hope never that, not till the end and not even then,
not the end, the thought of the end sends me drifting drift back from the action a little and I see these words hanging airily here
over this blankness like this and I wonder what’s next coming to tie them down, what fable, what subterfuge, what sincerity and what sincere myth, because it’s the inner life that fills and fleshes the external vacant and for a second it all seems heavy enough to’ve been worth it—
and I think I’ll have that engraved recorded on my video tombstone tape.