When you start to trawl through the pigeonholes of your mind sometimes you might not always want other people to see what is inside. Maybe some of the boxes are dusty, cobwebbed. Some boxes might contain the bones of ideas. Ideas that wasted away, undernourished. Other boxes filled with ideas so heavy that they have been rendered immobile.
I hope the pigeonholes of my mind are filled with beauteous things. Ripe. Wing-ed things. That take easily to the air and soar high.
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