(Written September 23, 2011, 3:17 am.)
The patterns of shadow on my ceiling conceal some hidden truth.
The day will come and wash it away.
The light will consume it, illegible, untraceable.
Then night will come again, with slightly different patterns.
And I will wonder if the truth has changed just a little.
Or if the Earth is just at a slightly different angle with the Sun, and the truth is just the same.
If I am the shadow that keeps shifting, and you are the truth concealed in me.