And a Happy New Year.
"You are who you think you ain't."
Yes, what is it? Fiction is something imagined and is not true in the normal usage of the word true.
You go to the local pub. You buy a Chicago Sun-Times on the way over. Once there, you drink some Buds at a very sedate pace and read the paper.
You think about the people who claim to have met angels or aliens. You wonder how many of those people have met both angels and aliens.
You lie in bed. You read Sodom and Gomorrah. Proust is the current treat you give yourself at the end of the day.
It’s dark. You walk to the garage. You start the car and aim it towards Iowa.