An old writer has a dream that compels him to write something.
"That in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts."
What a stupid story. Maybe there was a point, but I fear the point is that truth is relative? Or something? It ignores a deity and posits a world where men make truth and implicates you in all this. Horrible, yet conveniently short. Tell me I'm wrong.
Read it here. If you dare.
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