10-05-2017, 02:37 PM
"When thinking about our deaths, there is a calamity. A something that peters and pushes and pulls. No longer are we subject to the heavens and hells of normalcy, but instead to the cryptic designs of where and what and when we believed. Because we do. Believe. That carries from life to awakening and on toward that inevitable whenever it may be. Yet that is the only constant. Inevitability. Give it years. Give it moments. Give aeons. We all die. One day.
Except it isn't the end of the book. It's just the end of the page."
~Ulric Dreadsmith, Balboan, Fearmonger and Ecstatic~
One morning in October.
A book sits on the study table.
It's cover is crisped with burns and scorch marks.
It's title is missing.
The book will not open.
The book will not move.
It will not be pried away from the table.
It will not be shifted by force/Force.
It will protect itself if 'worked' at.
Cinders will light the air, a blossom of heat and burns.
But it will still be a crisp book.
On a table.
The next morning and there are two books.
One atop the first.
Newly crisped.
Newly titleless.
It too will not move.
It too will not be worked at.
The next morning and by now someone has been watching all night...
...another book has flown off a shelf.
Heavy with turbulence, enough to disturb chairs.
A third joins the pile.
It scorches.
It cinders.
The stack grows.
And each night.
On and on.
The tower is constructed.
Sloppy in its symmetry.
Crisp and delicate in appearance.
More rooted then any tree.
Book, after book, after book, after book, after book.
As if to count down the October days and nights.
Except it isn't the end of the book. It's just the end of the page."
~Ulric Dreadsmith, Balboan, Fearmonger and Ecstatic~
One morning in October.
A book sits on the study table.
It's cover is crisped with burns and scorch marks.
It's title is missing.
The book will not open.
The book will not move.
It will not be pried away from the table.
It will not be shifted by force/Force.
It will protect itself if 'worked' at.
Cinders will light the air, a blossom of heat and burns.
But it will still be a crisp book.
On a table.
The next morning and there are two books.
One atop the first.
Newly crisped.
Newly titleless.
It too will not move.
It too will not be worked at.
The next morning and by now someone has been watching all night...
...another book has flown off a shelf.
Heavy with turbulence, enough to disturb chairs.
A third joins the pile.
It scorches.
It cinders.
The stack grows.
And each night.
On and on.
The tower is constructed.
Sloppy in its symmetry.
Crisp and delicate in appearance.
More rooted then any tree.
Book, after book, after book, after book, after book.
As if to count down the October days and nights.