Sing it, sister. [Prior claps his hands in solidarity and dips his chin to rest on the backs of his palms, watching John stalk the floor.] And who can blame them. Truth is usually messy. It's bloody or it's sad, or selfish or mean. Right? We all look so much prettier when we lie. And yet.

[And yet, even when his instincts are to tread softly, he struggles to maintain a lie. And as with most people who view the world through their own narrative framework, he expects the same of others. Truth often isn't pretty but lies are a thin mask, and it hurts when it gets ripped off.]

And yet I find when something is inescapable - and people finding the truth out so often is - you may as well face it and take the knocks than let them catch up when you're not looking.