The sensation of having a secret is something like the sensation of having vulgar words written in permanent marker on your forehead. Part of who you know yourself to be feels hidden behind the lines, but some unfamiliar part of you feels obvious, eye-catching. It is something perilous and grotesque to be so vulnerable, if not for the passion in fragility.
It doesn’t matter how much you fake something if just one other person knows the truth. Like the magic of being in on a joke that isn’t that funny unless you don’t think about. There is a kind of beauty to being hidden. A beauty on the edge of becoming something dreadful.
PLUTO BLOOMING 