Truth is a raw wire.
It burns the hands that try to weave it into a home.
So the mind turns to the needle.
It patches together the soft fictions.
It mends the frayed edges of a cold reality.
Comfort is found not in what is absolute, but in what holds together under pressure.
The finest tapestry is just a consensus of threads agreeing to hide the void.
We do not crave the blinding light.
We crave a well-tailored shade.
Fiction is the fabric.
Fact is just the tear that needs mending.
Sanity depends on the strength of the seam, not the purity of the string.
The world prefers a durable delusion to a disruptive reality.
A perfect truth offers no warmth.
A functional flaw keeps the chill away.
The best armor is always woven from the most reliable threads of imagination.
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