It’s all evidence. There is dust on the tabletop, there are fingerprints on the glass; every word that was said was recorded by unseen witnesses and can be recounted to testify. Against. You. There are traces of those steps you took, steps in shoes, steps barefoot, steps in stalking feet, the twelve steps, the thirty-nine steps, the Odessa steps, dance steps, serious steps, sinister steps. The ultraviolent light reveals them all.
You were followed, by a host of recording angels, in plain brown wrappers, and they stood under the lamppost while you went inside, writing it all down. When you went in, when you came out, the light that came on in the third-story window, the crazy shadows that fell against the window shade, and what they reveal. (Who knows? We all know!)
Chemistry can reveal a lot, too. The stains may be invisible but they speak volumes. Not to mention your browsing history, your marital history, your job history, and your academic history. Clear cache? Sorry, dude; that wave broke. Don’t surf if you’re not ready to wipe out.
There are psychologists ready to testify. Not just ready, eager. They can prove that everything you haven’t done proves that you suffer from a personality disorder, a crime spree waiting to happen, and that everyone who doesn’t remember the vile things the evidence implies, well, the very fact that they don’t remember proves something even worse must have happened.
So why waste everyone’s time? We’re all happier when we finally admit what everyone wants to hear. After all, just look at that dust.
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