twenty-seven years and one million words
The stanchions in the foreground have been there for years - as I suppose is obvious. What I've noticed being back in Toronto is that the cormorants have poisoned all the trees in the reserve with their droppings.
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The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself.
—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov