Your Truth Is A Lie looks at its subjects the way a voyeur would. The camera always watches through a viewfinder, from very close, and never steps back far enough to show the whole. A spider, a lamp, an eye, pieces of glass, wax, glass marbles, cotton fibres, plastic held between fingers: each appears only in fragments, as an edge, a texture, a reflection, a moment of movement. The viewer catches glimpses of what these things might be, but they rarely reveal themselves in full, and the mind keeps trying to complete what the eye is denied. The edit is decisive and present, cutting with the same physical weight as the sound. Everything sounds material, almost industrial, as if image and music were made of the same matter. Over 47 minutes, this partial way of seeing becomes the subject itself: a reflection on how much of what we take as truth is built from fragments.