Difficulty in measurement came, when they decided to talk once a word throughout the ages upon the nature of life and the sanctity of the bookstore, where Peter Zeif and a few others gathered the peruse inter polarities of science, nature of the wilderness in Africa, and often times but never on a Sunday the temples of space and time – in which case the bookstore had many pages upon the shelves of.
Scattered throughout the density of the clouds in their minds, the philosophers of the dualistic likeness of a question such as what road would lead to the back of a coffee shop where an old widow and an estranged virgin are talking over coffee about war where is one question that would arise in Pages. Pages would not be that bookstore near the coffee shop, but the partners of commerce always drink coffee and whenever a clerk working the janitorial dustiness of a stone and brick thematic literature department of the district of the miry lands of (just that, The Mire), what question would the mirror say to the face of an individual looking into the coffee shop or the washroom mirror of a bookstore when you where at the lowest part of your life but remembered your life purpose and the way you had found it. And it would be just that, Branden Gabe Dumia thought, to try and capture the flame of writing in an old friends house. His spectacles glazed over from the perspective of the sudden doom they left on the inprint of his face, he thought, it wasn’t nice to have marks near your nose and have the glasses leaving the shadows under his eyes a place to rest under and give the impression he was an old man already at the age of 41. He did need them. He didn’t like them.
He had thought of working with him on a walk after perusing not the isles of a bookstore, but the isles of men, the men who were islands. On his way to the coffee shops secret stashment of towels the store would leave for people who were struggling with the overnight restocking and cleaning of the washroom, he would try and save a stash and keep them for the workers who would arrive to him. His friend Peter would sometimes laugh that he did such things and not only that, wondered where he first found out about the store to begin with because their coffee was measureably curious.
“Fatefully. To begin with a square yet a question of where it is” Alam Adamson once said.
“Wait. Are you killing the joke, where did that question come fro-” thought Branden.
He was to be betrayed, by someone in life that would strengthen one destiny and paradoxically destroy an element of his life that was lying on the street brought to another persons attention by a Hindu monk one time. He was in this washroom I spoke of looking himself in the mirror, there was Hebrew symbols on the wall, and the mirror was tinted. The mirror reflected a modern type of what the first generation of it called “blue berry pi” – in which case a camera lens records a split reflection of the man who would either shave or smile, and the screen was placed behind a glass like substance where you could measure your own looking into a mirror without seeing the distortion of the characters opposite side.
With that, the spaceir, sitting upon the wall across from the bathrooms real mirror reflected not just an advertisement under it as it changed digitally but as well as the person in the mirror. The advertisement was of two Persians, one false and one with the hourglass of a mans vice. The vice being the cigarette the man wanted the other, being Peter, to come to his house. For what a man professing one religion his country is about is an outright lie, and having the most welcome attitude towards their newly adopted or better put adopting faith is what the advertisement made Brendan think about when looking in the advertisement. The other Persian, Peter met he had introduced to his friend Branden. The two of them had various standings with the advertiser spaceir, its metal crux a pi and four verse contraption of technology programmed to ad and adap favor from two handful thought of learning from the air.
My mind is double minded, split by the words of the same questions.
“Chess”. No “Home stolen” Maybe. “Paintings from the falls where children cling to their fathers fear”. Yes.
“I don’t know where to begin” said the author.
Peter was an astute yet sleepy and slumberous sin running and inquisitive smoker who enjoyed spending his youth being a dreamer. One that dreamt of driving in the forests while the shade would not exist in any sense of the word. The inner deadwood of the house reiked, and Peter woke up to a smell of a stale air and beautiful sound of his cats asking for food. He desired to be hugged always though, and he wouldnt give it up until he rested on the fact that questions are more than words ending with symbols. Or would he give it up, the ringing in his head was the dust in the attic where he once attempted to abandon dark literature in which case now had a four sided copy of an emptey model of a statue. Honestly, the way he went about thinking his way into beastly situations was shaky and in depth when he asked the depths of his original mind in which he was frightened to explore the depths of at the ripe time, was fixed and sperated into a firmity of red yellow gold and unmistakable friendships of a town called Indelatio. In his mind he would imagine mirrors in shaky alleys with clutters of spiders turning into clusters of dark crab like nebulas that took on the form of a weak fish hook, his mind was imaginative and symbolic of a god fearing individual whom is just and unjust as sinking tough love when one walks from youthful choices wrought on by overzealous principles of intelligent design mixed with a firm understanding that the mirror neurons that sometimes slipped from one page to another.
His bathtub had a television in it, but he wouldn’t dream of sleeping with it, he thought sometimes it could flash into the fog of displaying to people sinking feelings of assurance of hatred.
His messianic childhood dreams of his favorite authors book about a steel man leading himself into lava, was a question to him. And John, Brendan, and the sister of Dumia. They had once wandered from the coffee shop of Second Drop to the mainstreet, unto a trolley and a diverse walk through the pathways that were close to a dark town of troubled income houses run by the system of the hospital networks workers, being so close to the hospital that is. He was burrying his friends philosophy of whether or not the prophecy of the books suggestive nature was in eye shot of something like a dream, but he did laugh at the fact Brendan starkly wanted to jump into lava whenever the subject of lava came up. He would use his vague understanding of books he found distasteful and compare them to Peters mind when listening. The two had met not too long ago, and because of their work they were not suitably engaged to work the place of business they had dreamt of at once. Nothing was independant to them. And John at the bookstore, was always talking about revolution of the mind as if it were an illusion.
The structure of this room he was taking towels from and washing himself off, after having to sit through the advertisment of the Persian men selling beer on the television had made him dizzy and longing for a partner to talk to in the bar. Not a lonely women, not a lonely bar tender, but a lonely book that could keep him from his perverse alternate mind.
‘Peter!’ said John.
It was useless, to John.
He could possibly muster Peter’s confidence as he’d cover sleepy conversations in the back of his mind speaking to him, unaware sleep had to be taken into effect.
John was a bookstore owner and wanted to grab Peter from his deep sleep he had drifted into. The pages all the while before he also drifted into, that of a philosophy book on ethics. His metabolism was as good as his sense of metaphor and John knew Peter would either wake up with his pants pissed or the book would have him dreaming of electric sheep with knives asking a chess player if he was colour blind. Either case, he was to wake up on his own or John could wake him from his sleep and charge him to the extra money for the book he hadn’t read fully given the time John allowed for the store to come to a close while Pete would finish what he requested reading. It was useless to charge him for the time wasted though, and the lack of awareness awkwardly awarded John nothing not notably do with the new time on hands.
The clock was about to click into it’s fifth hand past twelve. Five o clock on the dot was the time he usually wanted to start cleaning up the stereo command on top of his speaker box set up he had placed over the plethora of bookshelves in the the store. John ran the store, Peter walked in to read and converse.
John was an astute Jew, Peter didn’t believe in God in the center of him and wanted nothing more than to drink coffee and be merry while reading machinama comics about technology but the question always arose with the blue eyed brown hair Peter. He was young enough to remember his times in the ministry service of the church of England growing up, but the present time playing tutor at local trinity technology school down the road of the Mirelands didn’t give him the answer he wanted. The coffee and machinama was always two steps from the book he’d grab off the shelves of bookstores, his favorite being that of the local shop south of the highway that led into town.
The MireLands placed itself in a peaceful time of rest that had come before Peter, and separated from the sleepy highways that spanned the entire nations and among the earths core technologies and military strength was something that could only be used with thumbs and fingers of astute posterity were the door bells. It didn’t matter which you used, doorbells in The MireLands all buzzed differently, phones weren’t the only personal means of communication, and cars were no longer extinct.
Though not dystopian or something foreign to a modern man living in a place where nature can have one search the shelves of book stores and the ruins thereof to discover that what had made once does no sense to a man anymore, save for the penniless freedom one has looking for a dog chasing a bone upon a throne of men and women carrying themselves beyond the veil naked and unknown.
The MireLands had once ideas for rebuilding their sidewalks with smart technologies encompassing riders of their ‘so called’ re-invention of the wheel so that people with their technologies was not a far cliche journey of destiny and fate anymore. Having led Peter among his youth through a war or two growing up which climaxed to a completely differently expected fate, the cities thereof never realized the aspiration it would take to connect the commuters by wire and phone. The grammar of sidewalk commercials, or how the bus systems still worked while displaying commercials of nothing but ironic messages of salvation, was this world he lived in. This world had a name, sometimes and it was everywhere on the advertisements, but there were no hints to its humanity one might understand to be in dreams of his youth as to what that name was. The city was the only name he had at this point. He had tried, oh how he had tried to realize the name of the city.
This war he had seen growing up, the young men fighting at his schooling systems, the banking systems politely still doing what they’ve always been doing; there was nothing new to this world separate from the one he had known before his wife had died. And the way this is written, you may find a home in the rocks where he ends up in turmoil of the metaphors of life that come everyone’s ways. Everyone who tries figuring out for themselves, the days that come before one turns into a secretary of a bookstore. When one turns out to the secretary of that bookstore to pay the bills of a test written for a friend to visit another in a distant realm of a world. When one tries to sleep on the floor of an attic in a town outside the forests that encompass the Mirelands. When above reality where things he’d remembered from old age and youth visits to orphanages and churches at the times his parents were still around. He didn’t know where he was half the time, but most usually he trusted his novels and women whom he talked to about among the shelves of his wife’s parents’ house. He was at the moment single, and didn’t plan on finding a set of eyes to stare into for eternity again for a while now – nor had the chance of finding such hope, a hope that he had scene only hours before he had woken to this day. In the breathe of the night that turns to morning with the sounds of a commuter bus bumping it’s horn to make it’s way into the busying bus lanes and routes of a city of immense collectivist and diversity among other such novelties. For now, Peter was concerned of one thing. Where the bookstore he always goes to and fro on his way to a coffee shop called the ‘Smokers Coffee’ and when he would get the tears that he had shed for the daily commerce loss of the roadway systems that allowed him sometimes to venture to his forgotten families there out in the digital tombs and catacombs of catechism that belonged to the churches courtyards of the MireLands twin town (which was modeled after the inner courts of the Mire’ winery district).
He didn’t like his job, he did not not enjoy though, and his memories were affected only briefly when pulled out of contrary thoughts talking to strangers about what this reality he lived in was about. He was benign and foreign to his world though not to the friends he lived with while visiting the cities core offerings. It was something that could only make sense when the music he listened to wasn’t being played. He wanted the sun to rise and make its mark on the doctors that he went to work with have its way that made their ample bosoms glow with the tan that reminded him of all the times he had in the schooling colleges and universities.
When he was young he fell into medicine from what appeared during his wife’s wedding – as a symbol of resentment almost – one thing he found. He had remembered the colour of the front cover of a magazine called EFIL MIRROR, a famous French magazine dark in satire which for one of the holidays of his generation it named its front cover “The Pill of the Future”.
It didn’t arrive. The yellow color of the sun did. This magazine had got him into medicine when he thought he could live the rest of his days walking to work without rest, though it was good; he did find the idea of sleepless nights interesting. And the cover claimed – on April Fool’s Day – that you could get away without sleep ever again, if you downed a certain yellow pill.
This cover was beyond satire and humor as it was dangerous to his steadiness in the field. He, being in his late forties now, didn’t know what he would do without his wife who had once rescued him from the scene of medicine. Deserting the nature to pursue medicine came at no cost when he had his way into a different world, a world of curiosity on where to go next.
There were still microwaves in this generational gap, they were no different to the times of the third war and made popcorn taste buttery without doing anything different than the turn of the twenty fourth century. To his poor reckoning, life isn’t that much different than when the third world war had started in 2322 and for the sake of the look he had on his face as he went out the door, looking bravely into a mirror of mirrors he had on his wall. He wanted all the most to win her back. But the depths of Sheol were closed off and not shouting his name as he went out the door this morning. As sole keeper of the novel in his hand, he could at least get his way to the bookstore in time from where he was now if he wanted to escape the rising sun.
The car didn’t run on water. People needed that. The tunes in the car weren’t commercials that laughed at you, but there was a steady state of momentary gain in the business of going to and forth. There was no plan to use this towards anything though. It was no secret. It was just his life and others he presumed. Whom when he needed to get to the highway to the town next, and through to The MireLands.
He would take the time of 4:00 am and make his morning brew only to get into the city by sometime after 5 a.m. . When the city’s life was waking up and doing whatever they were pre-occupied with from what came from before the night before had ended. The car chipped as it opened, a noise of laughter came from his gut as he smiled to the sound of Dumah. She didn’t sound like she was breathing to heavily anymore, but her voice reminded him of when she first left the auto-alarm off and had a welcome home troops request among the automobiles automatic display of advice. He had awoken from his sleep. Had not yet taken his medication. Nor read the book that was left on his bed side table.
He was ready to talk to the autopilot.
“Straight to er’ Dumah.” Peter said.
Having taken the precautions of it’s own hive mind, to get his signals from where his hands where or however this machine worked he thought, he was headed at once by request into the town book industry. The store he called home. In which his friend had given up so much to get purchased and start up during the youth of theirs.
“On the way” explained the advice of the car.
Off he was.