So I play my game, my desperate pretending game, with a facade of
assurance without and a trembling child within. So begins the glittering
but empty parade of masks, and my life becomes a front. I idly chatter
to you in the suave tones of surface talk. I tell you everything that's
really nothing, and nothing of what's everything, of what's crying
within me. So when I'm going through my routine, do not be fooled by
what I'm saying. Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not
saying, and what I'd like to be able to say, what for survival I need to
say, but what I can't say.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Miraman, in the year 357 AF.