The fiction writer

He wrote lies, mainly, not because he wanted to deceive anyone, far from the truth, but because he thought that reality was as much a lie as any good fiction. He absorbed reality as it undressed in front of him. He took it all deep inside his mind and body. But somehow he found it questionable, not entirely truth-worthy, even when reality screamed and flapped its arms. He was suspicious of the way life needed to convince us of its gravitas. And with certain disdain for anything real, he wrote prose that took flight, a flight as real as any presumptive reality.