Dear Small Intrigue,

There is a roll of fruity Mentos sitting on my dresser. They terrify me.

They scream possibilities.

If you knew anything about me, you would know all about the nature of my random giving of small gifts. But you know absolutely nothing about me.

So the Mentos are just sitting there, asking me what in the world are they doing there, and I don't know what to tell them.

You see, the trouble is that your essence is so masked that it's impossible to tell the things you're noticing. Movements. Patterns. Words.

Me?

And the difference between awareness, alienation, or nothing at all may be the roll of Mentos.