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Why is it so rarely really
Comforting to know the truth? Why

Are we more likely to prefer
A variety of stories

Served with sidecars of arguments
About which stories are truer,

Even when the truth is simple,
Knowable, and painfully clear?

A few weeks ago a woman died
In the hamlet we inhabit,

In a pretty place with a view
Of beautiful rocks and sunsets,

And her body was found three days
Later, crumpled, frozen solid

At the bottom of her porch steps.
Stories differ on how she died.