Inside each one of us,
under the buried lies,
are a million hidden truths
And an unsung sacrifice.

The sacrifice to keep it all within,
the sacrifice much mocked.
But I fail to see the issue
With keeping it all locked.

It's safe and sound inside
with no one else to see
and no one else to judge,
My million hidden sanctities.

Why tell the world your secret
when it's only going to spread
and ****** away that little truth
that last bit of thread.

So, yes it's a façade,
and I have a million layers of complexities.
But in the end I'll find comfort
in my million hidden sanctities.

A book?
A book!
A book!
A book.

Sometimes, he really didn't make any sense to her.
But she was sure, she didn't make any sense to him either.

She had asked him for a solution to a predicament. He answered with a question of his own.

There eccentricities were boggling, to people and to minds like the white spots around your eyes or the colour violet.

There was a point he was building upto, she was sure. Well not sure, hopeful really.

"So why a book?" She asked?
"Why not?" He answered!
"How would a book help me with my existential crisis?"
"Well, a book has been credibly established to allow people to travel through time. So how does one derive the question to 42? By a book of course. How does one spend 5 hours in 4 minutes? With a book! When the questions are more elusive than the answers, read a story taller than the empire state building. And you'll probably fly through existentiality, well of one form at least. Books are what make sure that time doesn't remain linear, but rather flows like a twizzler in a baby's hand."

"That was so nonsensical it actually made a little sense", she thought. She'd never tell him of course, his head was inflated enough already.

"So", he continued, "Read a book, and I'll read with you. And maybe we'll find the question to your question in the blink of that naked surety you find in the split second of absolute consciousness between the pages."