Look at me. I can see your lips moving but I cannot hear what you’re saying. Is it the truth? Is it original? I cannot guess. Your face is blank, but your lips keep moving. It scares me that I may miss something. Something of truth. Something original. I see all these books. They hold the truth, all written by the word, the word that is the truth, but you say things to me that I cannot hear. How do I know you speak the truth? Isn’t the truth everything? I look at you. You look real. A mirror doesn’t speak but it shows the truth.
