Recently at work, while working on an internal project, I'd written a line about words calling it "The monologue in your mind; a soliloquy on paper". As luck would have it, most of what I wrote for this said project was not understood by a lot of people. My boss congratulates me on having written copy that was a little more cryptic than you would have liked, and I couldn't care less. Because maybe, just maybe, incomprehension preserved the sanctity of the monologue that was; no tragedy of moving away from the private to the public. Just the tragedy of "What's not to get?!"
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