Lost objects crowd upon me, I am possibly looking for something, though someone else may find it just a minute before me, but I say nothing, I cannot deny someone else's expectation of finding that something. But my silences in between are awkwardly long, sluggishly slower. These are coincidences that serve as distractions from making a discovery that has taken me years to come upon it. Now that the thing is lost, am I going to be set free? Like a photograph falling out of a frame that had held it within its for periphery. I cannot pick it up and shove it back into that frame again, it is now something dated, not even an experiment worth safekeeping. I may keep it as a secret when something died in me though virtually, apparently everything around me seems so complete, whole, undivided. I have started to wear a mask of a kind, possibly a gold mask whose shimmer will easily hide my mutilated passions. I may wear an inscription that very few can decipher, because there are no witnesses who were aware of what I have been going through - torn, humiliated asunder for being a woman. Just that.