There is nothing to say because nothing will ever be as true as it is in our selves. There is no magic involved in transforming thought to paper. It is simply violence.
If you walk in on a surgery halfway through it looks like murder. Ripping truths from my own body is as traumatic as being awake during my own heart transplant and it turns out I’m the surgeon. It leaves gaping wounds where there is already not enough to go around so the holes cave and yawn, disintegrating into each other, a collapse, a world implodes. And we are only the dust which floats or settles.
