My dad is an extraordinary man. Or so he says, and so I’ve believed. He seems to be entirely self-made; no guiding figures, no formative years. He rose out of the earth, his person irrevocably sculpted. There is no time he hasn’t seen, no wisdom he hasn’t carried. But he can’t, shouldn’t, allow himself to be known. All his actions and his thoughts have an air of enigma to them. The leaks from his ceiling are gifts of rain a thirsty man would never be able to appreciate. Divinity lies in the unknowable and the constant. My father has existed against time. He is a liar.
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