It was his secret inner face. He didn’t really laugh, as his joke rolled on the floor. But it was OK, because no one really heard it, and they would not have understood his smile. It was a secret that neither could mention. Not even between themselves. This is what he was told. When would he find out what it was? It was not the secret devil. The secret devil shows forth only fingers, gripping false attentions in the night. One may look around the corner, but it would not be there, moving as a rainbow might without a sun, without rain, indicating a secret pot of gold. It was not the secret angel either.

11 May 1973