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The House made of Flesh - Prologue
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The house had been built about 10 years ago. It had three floors to it: basement, ground and the second. There was plenty of space around it, the whole desert in fact. The sky was often cloudy, but it rained almost never. There were empty signs on the yard, in front of the house. We had no neighbors, the town was at least one kilometer away from us.
I was walking around the building like I was bored to death or then just didn't know what to do, there wasn't much to do at all. It caused panic in me when I couldn't do anything.
The cellar door was locked and the person who owned this house before didn't know where the key was so I didn't know what was down there, probably nothing. Actually there was nothing anywhere, my father blamed it on me that I was too narrow minded but I didn't quite believe him. This home is boring, which was the truth.
The first floor had four rooms: kitchen, my parents' bedroom, toilet and bathroom and the enormous livingroom that smelled like old wood. It was a
Social curseI'm glancing down at the phone again. I can't seem to stop myself, regardless of how far from me I place the cursed object, or how captivating the words between the well-thumbed cover of my book are. My hand stretches of it's own accord, my eyes snapping to the screen, willing it to flash....
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Is this an addiction? This itching, ever-present need to look?
I look again. It's still just a cold, cold box, with a dark, empty screen.
Just put the phone down!
I put the phone down.
Maybe, and I can hardly believe I'm even entertaining the idea, my parents are right. My hand is always glued to it, my fingers dancing along the screen merrily, as though there is no tomorrow. There is no excuse. Even though this little magic box is my connection, my voice to those too far away to otherwise hear. Even though I've never had as much pose as when I have it in the centre if my hand....
I drag my hand back curtly. The book, idiot, focus on the book.
The waitress wanders back to my table, placing
Hozan (Sadness)حزن (Hozàn)
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In the name of thee, all-enshrouding fog,
In whose presence a hue of regret pour out their transient accord, as if hoping to awaken to a calling that is known only by your mind's eye. That emotional contrast which is felt - and upon a sudden blink, with no moment given to comprehend it - is in itself a reverie yearning to be heard... of course, with caution exercised diligently. It is difficult to consider one's soul to be free from melancholia - not unless one is a ghost, which is the case with all of us.
Maiden, whose smile is a dream that has been carved by the Almighty... how often, I wonder, have I thought about the closure you provided me whenever I would think about that fine silhouette that was your smile, my dear. It is like snowflakes perched upon winter leaves - tender, gentle, fragile, and a pleasure for the eyes. Melancholia, my dear - all it takes is your smile to start this process, where hues of regret pour out their transient accord