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The lovers speak only in secrets. That is not because they have things
to hide. Quite the opposite. They have too much to reveal. That is
why they hush their voices, babble without end, laugh mindlessly.
Meaningless words, secrets without anything secretive, commonplace
phrases, innuendos, names, hopes for the future: everything, no
matter its banality must be whisphered.
The secret is the ecstacy of the lovers' overflowing turned back
in towards its source. It is only embarassment that prevents them
from yelling joyously. Rather than reveal this in their faces, their
voices, they condense their happiness in whisphers.
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