The fat diary, sitting on his table. He could barely read the chaotic scribblings, the dusty pages, the cracked lines, and the damage to the cover. The inscribed detail, the thousands and thousands of words. The man who had owned it was dead. Killed himself in a lonely apartment, near upper Manhattan. A single gunshot wound... Found with blood everywhere, staining the beautiful bedsheets...Buried in an unmarked grave... One momentary glance and he had taken it, hid it underneath his thick raincoat, across the road, silently trudging... It was a beautiful little book, with a strange allure to it... A fantastic grandness to it, with its fading gold... The words rushing through the pages... He flipped open the first page, saw the date, and stared at the title. January 1st, 1999. I know everything... Everything... Every day, the moment, the present, the strange past... I know every detail in every view... I can tell the number of flits the fly that lives in my lonely apartment makes... H
A series of books, stories, that I've made on the internet and spread around somewhat, that I'm trying to gather right here, right now in this current blog location. Some of these stories are genuine trash, but some of the stuff is interesting, sometimes alluring... Maybe...