You don't want to tell anyone. This is your secret, your little box of gems and itching. You don't know who or how or why, but it appears, like wild roses under railroad ties, like a vein of gold. It is yours, yours, yours. It is your secret.

And if anyone else is enjoying it, you don't know, and can't. And that's all right. It's just all right.

I am happy to be that mirror for you, unknown, unnamed, unspoken. It's just, just, just all right.

<<agé chose>>

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