You know, how you can have one baby that cries all the time and one baby
that never cries.  Perhaps the baby that never cries is crying all the
time, in secrecy.  Maybe the baby that never cries is crying everywhere.
Under the arch, where if one is not sure of oneself, self-incineration
takes place.  Premature birth turned to pits.  Bits of bone burned but
where else would the detection of elsewhere?  How does that one baby, who
sits in the corner, never self-aggrandizing, not appear?  That appearance
may be the home of forgery, the drama of dirty diapers.  As when one baby
made an interesting sound and now all the babies are doing it.  Was there
ever a silent baby who did not speak?  Was there ever a baby who truly
kept to itself?  Was there ever a baby who did not emote just to get what
it wanted?  In the anxiety of ventriloquism, must all babies share?  Maybe
the secrecy baby is just growing up to the tune of broken cups, still able
to hold.  Maybe that baby is holding a volcano in its little baby unknown
cup. Maybe that baby will be gone before leaving ever reaches the others.