In every country other than the U.S. confessions are taboo. Not here. The first person is like everyone else in lyrical society, boasting bragging rights for having interesting things to read, packs of old love notes, crayoned hearts and drunken smiley faces, pledging boundless love.

Of course the I-tropes are... sticky. The Ivy trope acts as if it spent decades on self-gazing, an assembly of pulverized dots — big, jaunty dots that gather at will to darken world markets, ducking your punch and closing the distance.