Mendacity?

The Mouse, in his human form, tends to be simpler. The Mouse is The Muse. He stands around outside of seriousness and pretends to know things. That's how he came to be called mendacious.

As I say though, the man is simpler. He eats, drinks, and stays warm. That's about it for hm.

But as simple as he is, he has a hard time -- like now -- knowing which is real, him or the Mouse. He gets clues. The man seldom feels lonely or distressed . . . or maybe that's the Mouse. One or the other of them reads simple sentences and hears deep meaning. He recalls the weathered boards of what seems like a wharf, or a pier, grey wood with huge nail heads, some ot them raised so far above the timbers, the Mouse -- or the man -- thought he would one day hammer the nails in tight so barefoot children would not stub their toes on them . . . but he never did. A catcher in the rye without commitment to his duty.

The Muse somtimes imagines or remembers things, always pleasant. The darker memories belong to the man. This confuses both of them. It seems that if the man is, as he says (or as the Mouse says for him), such a simple thing, and if he can complain of no lack of food or drink or warmth, why would he have such heavy thoughts?

I suppose an answer could be found in the confusion of who or what he is, the lightness of the Muse weighed down by the perplexities of need. The Mouse seldom takes his needs as other than givens. The man must produce their satisfaction. Maybe that's it.

And maybe he -- whoever he is -- could believe those words, if he knew which one of him had spoken.