even memory becomes a lie—
that was a truth, and so goes
the old paradox— out of truth
a lie to beget yet another.
The hollowness must be filled.
So, the words fall into the holes
like wet sand, thick and dark
until the voices have stopped;
until the voice becomes itself:
pervasive like white static
smoothing all to a null point
where what we know is allowed.
I know my truth for now:
one thing leads to another
(October 6, 2025)
subtext 