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

“I had it!”

“No. You lost it”.

Those were the last words I heard from my teacher. The memory like the the dull shadow that traces my steps, only appearing when I had forgotten myself. I wanted to recall more, but it seemed I couldn’t hold on to just what I wanted to continue. My life was becoming dull. I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.

“Leave.”

“No”.

Again. Why was I recalling such dull visions. My life was grand, but these simple moments was as if the sky remembered a recluse. How come I just sat here thinking to myself? A bit and bob moved. Again. These surroundings bored me.

“Why must I continue?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking yourself these things.”

Annoyed at the silence I spun the quardric sitting on my desk. A soft glow illuminated the immediate surroundings. Yup. It was still a pig sty. I wonder if I should clean up one of these days? A shake of disapproval. I sigh a breath of relief. The clusterfuck was comforting in its own sort of way. Just as enigmatic as I wanted to be. This and that with no permanent home, except where it was. Such freedoms made me jealous. I spun around in my chair knocking over a pot if nift. It spilled, the vapors smelled of melancholy. I couldn’t help but smile.

“Ah! So that's what….”

“I think it likes you.”

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. these sullen words snipped from its own fabric. time grew jealous….

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License