X can never reach out and fix on an opinion again, he tells me. No more truths, he says. He’s been picked apart from the inside by truths as if by a virus and his trust is gone, especially his trust in himself, he says. He’s horrified by himself, by his infinite capacity to prove himself wrong. He’s in one of those moods, he tells me, making quote fingers. Maybe he just needs to get laid, he says.

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