TRUTH

STUBBORN DONKEY

Everything you can imagine, is real. Picasso.
There is no truth but this, he said.

And then there was no more.

(When nothing else is all there is it begs to quest what for.)

He winked and grinned, with mischief, yes and held the open door

How ‘bout this? He asked.

How ‘bout this?

 

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