It is the only thing that won't come out and it is burning me from the inside. I cannot write it because the words have not yet been formed, the truth has not been fully found, and in the context of me it would not be right.

I feel it swirling within me, yet here I sit, toying with half-formed thoughts like a cat playing with a swarm of butterflies, juggling extremes and quietly learning that innocence does not leave with grace or subtlety. I don't know how it will all end. It won't come out any way but on its own (the image of ketchup comes to mind). When it all started to work out, I left my tears on my pillow and decided that's where they should stay, this being something that just might turn out well.

When I looked to the sky, it seemed that the stars had formed a giant glowing question mark above the horizon. I paused respectfully, only later realizing how appropriate this was. When I look at you, your eyes especially, I see that you are waiting for a truth you think is inevitable. I don't need this. I have thrown parts of myself into the far reaches of these questioning stars; you find the debris and think you know me. No, my friend, you don't know a word of me, not a single word, and don't think for a second that you're going to write it for me. Leave that part to me; it may take a while but in the end it will all make sense.

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