Books for the Impossibly Blind

Content of Book No. 1.

The thought made me happy. Not just one but all of them. The thought of your reading of them. These thoughts that creep unrelenting on the dead of night. Or should I say on the brisk of evening. That would only make as much sense as what I'm saying. There is always more work to be done. I put my gloves on and grabbed a head with a hat and set off for the evening. It was going to be a long night.

128 Ç
129 ü
130 é
131 â
132 ä
133 à
134 å
135 ç
136 ê
137 ë
138 ⌊…⌋
139 ï
140 î
141 ì
142 Ä
143 Å
É 144
æ 145
Æ 146

Content of Book No. 1.

A cold i was suddenly staring back at me. i could only see the things it wanted to show me. how blind did you want to be. how correct was HE supposed to eat? The question was tossed around like a bowl of spit fed to the hungry poor. he was disgusted with himself for that was all he knew. like words stuck to a forgotten page, we could only guess the intentions.

i was, i am, .

and, yet they misoverstood like the reader of a forgotten lantern. the madness that sank unto oblivion. his shell was disheartening as if ''I'' could remember yesterdays mourning dew.

words help, no context, yet the vibrato was a fit as the fiddle of the devil. Nothing… but, skin and bones. Nothing wore skin and bones. Nothing could still not fathom its own inchomprehinsability. the sullen words snipped from its own fabric. time grew jealous….

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