of Paul Morris

I read fiction books. Their words, all high and hazy, spiral into my heart. It will always feel like a house where I can cry or sleep without nightmares. I can draw friends and make them like me or be friendly to me. The books these authors wrote are much more than letters, but a life. Every day, I read and try to finish one house (I call the books with this term since I started reading). And for every paragliding I travel to, I always end up with a satisfied smile. But I need to start constructing another house again. I live alone in my barely-paid apartment (I received the notice to leave last week). As a jobless reader, the books are my only safe hearth. I speak the words out loud while I read, to forget the hunger for living the nights without food (two night ago, I ate a page, but hurled). I hear a loud knock on my door and an angry, manly voice behind it. I drop my book and laugh loud while I face the chaffed-paint wall.


Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.


let me hold your words before you leave;

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