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For me the truth has never really been that hot, with lies having seemingly always been the electric of fingers on the skin. The truth has for a long time had too much pong of the popularity contest to get invested in.

Ever since I discovered how fallible and changeable my own observations and interpretations were the truth has been unreliable.

So with truth as good as a friend's food, I base my anarchist life upon an ethic; that is, does this 'whatever' demean or raise, destroy or nurture, is it benign or pernicious? A story, my senses, my intuition, my heuristic.

The objective reality, as I encounter it, is what it is. I cannot without care walk through walls. Heavy bleeding means black and white vision and a need of medical treatment. Beans make farts. Squirrels climb trees. Water cools. Fire burns. Everything else is mine. The truth until it isn't.

Anarchy allows diversity in a premise and a more intimate connection to its relation. The uncomfortable position that isn't the comfort of an increasingly relentless dull aching gonad.