The stream of tears running down my face became an all mighty never stopping flood of liquid pearls, gifts to the existence of such perfect idea, the reason of the perfection which did not need to be shown, the light which needs not to be seen for it to light up things that no one will ever see, those marvelous things whose pure essence remains as long as they are not sought after, casted light upon, precisely written about. The kind of things which remain a secret.