I compute, therefore I am

The truth exists in Python, a computer programming language, or possibly C++. Why? Because my keyboard sings English and understands noir.

We are the truth. Every faulty move we make is a stroke on the never ending canvas of reality, paid for in full by some art museum in Manhattan. We are artists, adjusting our berets and using color in our art, language, mistakes.

We are the best there is. Why would we have been born if we couldn't hack it?

The truth? We weren't. It's random; a series of code on a computer designed for our fingers in just the right way that it looks like we've moving, when in fact we're all stagnant.

We are all trying, and for now, there is oxygen to support our myths.