For the longest time, I bear my secrets: like a 10 kilo backpack picked out by my disgust'g taste, in her words.

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I crouched, laughed, fantasized, cried, cursed <= floating above those light beige leather seats; but then from a single moment they became weathered, deformed, dictated by the unrecognizable traces celebrating incidents beyond my knowledge. Infused with mundane toxicity, the seats seem to have betrayed me, giving out their ponderous purity so deeply memorialized in exchange of a disproportionate share of alien company. 

its too late to reflect whether it was an forgotten consensus or the consensus has been forgotten. I hesitate

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(3,2019)

then, where do my secrets go? - Archive ....(4,2020) proposed one solution = Secrets for Sale, and now in effort of adhering #1 inclusive art manifesto I make them public, in the language of Wake up! Magnets again from Archive ....(4,2020) ||.