The Story I Didn’t Finish


“I’m like an open book.”
“Not true. You are a good story.”

How can it be interesting with an open book ?? You didn’t have time to look at the cover, enjoy the smell of new pages in your life, run your palm over the black, of different beauty, gnarled letters. The open book is already open. What kind of research can be done here?? That’s right, none. Therefore, you are a good story. Whatever stories you fill the cup of our time, the edges will never suffer from an overabundance of what has been said. It will never be enough for me.

With each meeting, I will crave to learn more and more events from the author’s life, and I agree to get drunk from long-held secrets. With every meeting, my throat dries up from the question “What’s new??” with the taste of sand, because you yourself grab it from my tongue, and it just crumbles dryly in a heap of other unspoken phrases. With each meeting, my heartbeat quickens from intrigue or unexpected news, which becomes a lump in my throat, but the touch of unread pages reminds me how to breathe more calmly. With each meeting, my desire to learn new notes of your airy sugary dreams becomes so unbearable that I in one gulp hour after hour drink to the bottom of everything that you tell me.

You always manage to cheat and, by mixing the black color of the letters with a white sheet of paper, as a result of a reaction, get a flicker of colors from emotions.

Your destiny has chosen an excellent hero for the memoirs. You chose a wonderful course of events for your good story.

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