It’s the stupidest argument, every time. It’s a reflexive thing, the thing people say because it’s scripted that way. It needs to be said, and I am no longer convinced it is even supposed to be for my benefit. It has more in common with an elegy or a prayer, spoken by the penitent and the fearful.
This must be what talking to a flat-earther feels like, I think, not for the first time. The willful disbelief of what was right in front of them. The conspiracy theory that was my body.