I sit in the darkest corner of the unlit room, with my thoughts, so that none may know, so that none may see, though it’s all the same darkness, the same thoughts seeking to remain hidden, in others’ minds, like a secret everyone knows, though each would make of it, something truly and terribly personal. Our secrets live, like prisoners condemned to a life of darkness and isolation, without the possibility of parole, or, like hidden wounds, unseen, and yet, never forgotten for the effect they produce, on the rest of the body. Who’s to turn on the light inside this room?