I know that lovers always lie, no matter how hard they try, and no matter how convinced they are that their words are truths.
You can't please someone always, and you will always sometimes hurt them in theory or in your head. That's where the fibs come in.
I thought that I heard a hijacked aeroplane headed straight for my skull.
It crashed through my eyeball and into the office room where my brain stores my truths and my lies and this song and that scene and his sentence and her face when she cried;
it stores them all in neat little files in neat little cabinets in neat little ways
so it can neatly pull them out and give them to me on demand.
The plane crashed in through the window and into those cabinets,
and the files went flying.
And the filers also went flying, down down to the gravel below, where their own
brain-files smashed and flew and the world was a mess of floating information for awhile.
When everyone picked up the papers and folders and put them back neatly into their slots in the cabinet drawers, a few things happened.
1) Some of the truths were filed in the lies files, and some of the lies were filed into the truths files.
2) A song with 6 billion copies was filed into the file of every person on the planet, and we all hummed the same tune.
3) His memories got mixed up with her memories, and soon everyone had some memories that weren't their own, they belonged to someone else, and we all felt connected in a strange way that seemed real but wasn't at all.
I look at you and you think you see a glimmer in my eye; remind yourself that you're wrong.
We're all just victims of disorganization.