Liar slithers through as a vine unfurling and blossoming into poisonous buds. At first going undetected on the forest floor, but soon finds a tree to climb on and elevates itself so that it has become one with something it is not. Black magic smoke. Coughing and gagging while purple pixie dust sprinkles down from two clapped hands as a smoke screen diversion from the main event. I am marvelously gutted. I don’t like the way lies make me feel. I don’t like this depressive fatigue, this cloud, hanging heavy, belly swollen and full of rain. Through a parade with two baking / cookie sheets being slapped together in makeshift simples, cymbals – The trust, the truth will out. Shakespeare sloppily jotting a line as he’s heading out the door, shoving a piece of toast into his pie-hole. The quill scratches and is nearly out of ink. He pulls on his shoes one at a time, jumping up and down. Late for school. Playing hooky. Scraped knees and sugar pervades the day. Crevasse, pitch blank and narrow. It is uncharted territory not on any map. Uncomfortable knowledge in silence and not coming forward. It is reverse Clockwork Orange in terms of its own morality or lack thereof.