It roams quietly around the room. People are smooth, looking down, rubbing chins, playing with wrinkles in pants, and one picking dog poo off of his shoe.

Some know the truth. Some only know experience. The truth floats around the room like god, spectating at all of the confusion, smelling the burnt coffee and the elephant dung aroma from clothes melted too often with stale Lucky Strike smoke.

The truth tries to fire herself out of the stories, out of the experiences which should act like a lighthouse, pointing distinctly at herself, at the shitty, moving, but distinctly singular truth.