Everything herein is fiction, not so much because everything herein is a thing made, thus a fiction, but because everything here is written by a fictional self for a fictional audience in a fictional America. No longer me, no longer America, no longer us or We. No matter how much something reads as if it were non-fiction here; it is fiction.
Another and another and another thing made until the last syllable of recorded time—fiction records as much as non-fiction. Fictional truth has as much valency as the Truth we have lost sight of in our preoccupations with fraud and greed.
Cheap–we are horribly cheap, which is only the flip-side of greed, greed in another guise. Yes, we have been calling shit a rose for so long that we can no longer smell roses without contempt for how they do not smell like shit.