I lie. Daily, terribly, clearly, sometimes – not often – very obviously. But usually, it’s because I don’t know what else to say, or more often than that, because I am protecting those I love. It haunts me, I know how wrong it is, but I’ve never been able to stop. All bright kids are depraved, isn’t that how Nabokov put it? And I like to think myself a bright kid, or at least a depraved one.