Table

And so the books began to pile up, open pages of half read text, filled with a collage of scibbles and underlinings and colour marked out sentenses. Yellowing leaves of ancient texts sits on top of them, and issues of magazines long expired gathers quietly in a corner. A few pens laid scattered across the table, idly waiting while they while away inbetween pages, in indifference. The blue inked scribblings on the table calander had all gone back to sleep, but their creator trudges on against his leaden eyelids and wind stunged eyes. He reached to the right, tearing a tissue away from its box, to hear the smoothing ruffling sound of its grainy texture. He looked at the shape of keys, its rough jagged edges and its smooth coin-round face. Its cold silver-whiteness and how it threw light off it. After a while that unsettled him. And so he turned, reluctantly back to his books. A part of him had momentarily died. Yet he know not why.