Of the moments Lemmy and I shared, I have no proof, no hard evidence, no transcript. Our conversation is lost in cyberspace, one Tuesday afternoon easily evaporated.
The more narratives that approach reality "differently" get treated as "insane" or "unreal," the less readers are exposed to them, and the more "unreal" or "insane" they seem. It's like a feedback loop.
You read that your sister's body—a towel still knotted around her neck— was found dressed in a nightie, panties, and one slipper. You are wearing a nightie, panties, and slippers as you read it. The words safe and trusting pop into your head.