The He Who Never Was

He grew use to this surrounding, among the books, among the paper that was almost as thin as he. 

He grew familiar with the pages, with the words that lived on each one, familiar with the ink as black as he. 

Familiar with the bookshelves that stood as tall as he wished to be most often, 

and even familiar with the humans that came in day to day, with the humans

that had no faces and masks. 

The humans with no names, no history.

Familiar with the strangers,

as new and old as he. 

Reviews

[falling_toxic_rain]

Intersting...simple....but deep. I like.

[...]

. beautifully written ...
. there's something very surreal about your writing ...