France IS Bacon!

Where do errors grow?

In my Flow-err, Fact-err garden, rows upon rows of jaded objectives, mistaken by the bees to be things unpollinatable, but see how they spread. The wind carries their petty seeds, spreads them to the corners of the Earth, leaving nothing but homogenous misunderstanding- to the untrained eye! In reality, every flowerr is unique, a twist on the fruit that first spawned the notion of Truth.

Do you judge us for beloving our delusions so? We do not blame you; such prejudice is a natural byproduct of the nectar, the juice of our garden. Breathe in the air and you can’t help but incorporate the inconsistencies, deep into your lungs, breathing out falsehoods into the morning air, inured to the stink of your own breath. How the doves do love to tell us they are really pigeons. Do we mistake them, or do they mistake themselves. Probably both, the geese/swans assure us. We are not assured. No one is, in this brave, new, flat, world.

My research into the qualification of truth has yielded many results, but the foremost is this: reality did not begin to break down when the Demons arrived; their arrival merely forced us to finally abandon the broken concept. What is possible? What is true? What is shared? Nothing, the Demons say. So we must learn to live with Nothing, feeding off the produce produced in such voided soil. Do not fret, my dear children. There is a way to soar on these flights of fancy.

 

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