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But here is my secret: I am a liar too. Or I was, for much of my life. I remember the moment when I realized that I had a hand in what type of reality another would live by. That I could carve out my own secret nook beneath others’ expectations and exist in that delicious, sovereign space.
See, I didn’t write the story about him because I was afraid he would kill me. Certainly not like, ha-ha, I thought he would “kill” me, and actually in this case not literally kill me, because I spent a fair amount of time thinking about it, If I did this story, would this guy kill me?, and I thought it would be more likely what this man would do if I did a story about him, one that, shall we say, exposed him…