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April 17, 2007
I had been entertaining a sentimental attachment to some vague higher truth, mostly to avoid annoying my father.

“Son,” he might say, “don't tell me you're moping about the meaninglessness of existence over there.”

“No, of course not,” I'd say. “There is definitely something. I'm just having trouble seeing it lately.”

“Truth is Beauty, son, and Beauty Truth.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Then I realized... do I really believe that? No. I just didn't want to hear his boring refutation of nihilism again. I hung up the phone and went back to staring at the ceiling, which I pretended was an abyss.