There's something in ourselves we don't know. Something which we'll deny even if it exists until it will be too late to do anything about it. We lend a habit, polished, as if it's a trophy, begging for the approval of others, and withal that, nobody has any clue where we are. How near or how far, which's the truth or the delusion… how's the look in our eyes when what we are seeking for it hides right where we'd never think to search for, if someone wouldn't appear, miraculously, to whisper its magic and encouraging call — “come rain or come shine… come with me, (come…), (shine on, you… crazy diamond).”