Let’s face it, honestly, I’m a liar; a grand fibber; a teller of the tallest tales; a chronic leg-puller. I’m all for smoke and mirrors. I have a doctorate in the art of the spin. My truths, if I dare use the word, are relative like distant cousins on the side of the family that we don’t like to talk about. My truths are derivative, implied, and always up for interpretation. They are like the difference between a lemon-lime soda and a mineral water with lemon-lime essence. I steal ideas and get them soggy and then reform them into my own shape. I’m the kind of guy who takes a melody and harmonizes them into something else I can call my own. I’ll tell you the coffee you’re drinking is a Viennese blend when it’s really Nescafe. It’s with malice toward none. I lie under the excuse of writing. It’s an exemption from the rules regarding the broadcast of falsehoods. Nobody will accuse me of misleading them because they believe it really to be a fiction even if I claim the opposite. I might argue the difference between what is true and what is actual. But there are times when even I must. When there is much more on the line that a well-placed word or turn of phrase cannot adequately account for. Like telling somebody I love them.