Writers are liars, An inflexible truth on which we all can rely. When it suits their fancy, they lie. And so liars they are.
Strange words, from one such as I? I should think not... Rather I would say, A formidable defense, An explanation in advance, And the one truth on which... you may always rely. But let us leave this, Silly verse behind, And cut to the chase.
Life in a monastery is... austere. Much I have
given up, and much do I miss, but of that which I miss most, sex tops
the list.
For example, as Lily -- precious Lily in all her
virginal glory -- as Lily checks on my paper and freshens my ink... as
she does this I cannot help but to hope, and to pray (and therefore to
write) that one day she will fall to her knees, bathe me in kisses, and
shower my body with an endless display of lust, adoration, and pleasure
as she franticly pleads the -- unlikely -- case of her unquenchable
love and devotion.
Yes. I think this.
So then, I write this.
But is it true? Is it truth?
I only know that I count on Lily’s continued
innocence... or if that is not to be ((and it seems highly unlikely)),
then I hope at least that her body is willing and her mind is easily
led... but whatever the case, we must leave Lily ((and her)) behind for
now.
Today’s principle lesson -- in fact today’s only
lesson -- is that writers -- all writers -- are liars.
So as I tell you my tale of a future that will not to be, and share
with you a glimpse of a past that has not been, always -- yes always --
keep in mind how easily it is to distort the present... and twist it
about until it does not reflect anything... that has ever been... or
will ever be...