I find nothing to be so rare at last; nothing except the things I'm sure I have figured out. And when they are recognized and cast aside, I shove the disgusting embarrassment down deep into the bowels of my consciousness. Letting the clumsy warmth drip over the lump in my throat, I stare in silence at the things that I had seemingly gazed right through. Unfortunate to consider, unsightly to devour. Yet all is beautiful in my life, just as it is sour.
