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.
WORD COUNT: 183
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