There is a secret that i want to share with you. Hidden beneath the vagary that treads the futile path. It resides in the place none other than myself would know. Such a common, utterly worthless secret, but a secret nonetheless, in that i have kept its expression to myself.
Yet, i cannot help but ask, first, what is it about me, through some defect of the eye or mind, that compels the world to shape itself this way? Everything about me is wrong, or the world is; surely there is no in between for such things. And if there were such things, it would mean there lies deeper in-betweens still, nestled in the fabric of everyone's thoughts; their