There's no reward in the unadorned truth. It stuns the nerves, levels pillars, and suffers manipulations. Truth, poor truth. -the unfortunate recompense of the aesthete. -a bane to cozy pleasantries. Point your light plain truth, toward the fog of human folly. Be the agent of our salvation.
Reward! And opening to majesty through struggle, bitter and blighted. The freedom of sensation! What release from these pangs. When confined and proscribed, I yet burst at the slightest hint of choice.