Sometimes I pause, mid-sentence, and wonder, Am I telling lies?

I can't remember properly. Nothing is fully remembered; everything known becomes mostly myth, rumors, secrets gleaned from books, their names quickly forgotten. What remain are ghostly echoes that haunt dreams, my fiction, the way I read or listen.

...

I can't trust my writing anymore. Written without critical response, my prose ails; sentences misshape themselves and metaphors become tumors, lumps discovered and then assessed, frowning, in a dimly lit bedroom.

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