A read a book about reading a book.
It was strange, the sudden consciousness of what I was doing, how i was looking at the author, how I was predicting the story. In certain flashes, the book was being written as I was reading it, simultaneously.
I wonder if its ever been read before or was it all a figment of my imagination?
I longed for the story to get over, i hated the author for being the puppeter.
I was relieved each time the other reader was written about but I could always feel his eyes on my back. Peace settled around me, in that space, in that time. I read, imagined, hoped, longed, hurted, hated, a wonderous cataclysm of volatility.
Imagine observing yourself living, simply floating away outside the window of the room where you stand and argue, quite funny. I look ridiculous almost all the time. Ridiculous and happy.
New found love: U2 accessories :)
listen to new york by them
Sad demise: Oasis have split
I will miss you
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