Lies are so simple, Rémi repeats. They absolve, not us, but the world surrounding. It is simpler for us all if we participate, nod our heads in synchronicity as we smear campaigns across each other's ears, listen and revere. "J'accuse" is just so not in style.

But why, I ask him, and his brow furrows. Why won't we call out the bullshit? It's there, it fucking stinks; say it, I tell him; say it because I will not defend lies any further, defend the excrement sliding out of our esophagi; there is no more bile left within me to expel from the stench.

Rémi doesn't respond because he has finally passed out, sitting straight up in his chair; I slump off his desk, make my way over to the couch across the office and too escape into oneironautic territories.

He and I do not believe in anything anymore; and fortunately, this allows us to believe in everything.
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