FEELING

When I go to old book stores. Abandoned by others, ruffled, torn are books.

Written by mortal men, gaining immortality from their books.
The book withers but the man will not

These men living within pages, speaking to us their words, breathing in the gaps of sentences
They are infinite

So when I find myself in an old book shop.
Surrounded by authors gone and alive
To be able to read about their life in a span of hours. I have think to myself: Time. Like droplets of water pouring in a stream.

How differnt time flows. For these writers and myself.
And each of them watches me.
Gathered in dust, torn and ruffled. But as alive as the reader who reads them, and makes them anew
Lucious Reeve Chronicles age: 33
(See my blog for the series :)

Also be cool and -