The girl down the block has secrets. So does her family, her friends, neighbors, even that stranger sitting next to her on the bus. Everyone we touch has locked away treasures that only they can know. I had a dream once that all secrets were tiny scribbles upon pieces of notebook paper, fluttering around with dazed audiences below, scrambling around to see who could get the most. The most precious and dangerous of those papers were locked tightly away in a safe that was shoved under the deep sea of misunderstanding and illusions. Locked away so the world could never read or hear of the atrocities that were being committed. All the lines and dotted I's that could never be released. The scratching of pens that was too bulky and brutal for the fragile to handle. Locked away. One day someone opened the door and all those messages of false hope, of dying time, of mounting devastation pushed past the good. Smothered it with a forceful vigor that could not be tamed, that would not bow down to their oppressors. All would sink into obliteration. It would all end.