Fact is the winter.
Fiction is the hearth.
We have a choice:
Stand in the "cold light" of what is.
Or light a "hot lie... and feel warm.
The light shows us exactly where we are,
but the lie tells us why it matters.
In the vacuum of space,
meaning is the only thing
that doesn't reach absolute zero.
We are all just warming our hands at a fire
we had to imagine into existence.
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