Sometimes I wonder if the things you show me in brief, fragmentary glimpses are even real. The blood and bruises; the streets and the sanatorium. You feed me as many lies as truths, I’m sure, and they all taste the same, so how am I to tell them apart? Which are purposeful fabrications, which are lies yet real all the same to you, and which are painfully and inescapably true? I’m only the scribe, of course, so I’ll write what I’m told – but I do wonder. Your beloved is the epitome of the unreliable narrator, blinded by love and loathing and eager to drink down any lie, yet you’re the one who truly can’t be trusted. Veiled and ever changing as the moon; I should have known.