This isn’t new; writers tell lies better known as stories, but one is as prevalent as it is denied, donning different masks, feeding on and transmuted by and into the very beasts we create them to be. The lie, then, takes on many forms, borne out of weakness, yours, with a propensity for its regenerative root. Grotesque in nature, and so surely deformed in spine, they keep themselves just out of reach from each of us that none can touch any. Yet, they migrate and make home in all our senses, if we allow them. A beast, beasts!! I tell you! What are these gargantuan monsters that rip from us the veins that nourish us, plucking each one, the contents from which spill, not onto the page as we would like, but into the ether to never be remotely supplicated. Several pincers into our presence, and fangs piercing our reasoning, they are shadows into our every day. Alive in us but blind to us, they creep to tap us on the left shoulder –never the right, in the minutes birthed to us by plan or by chance. The beasts arch to give a final blow, and the tick, tick, ticks echo into artifacts as grisly gnashers pry into more seconds, and gasping for a near pinch of breath, we rupture their entrails, the lies into the shreds that soon coalesce into now. Right now to write now. There is only now in writing. Anything else is a lie.