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The book keeper's odyssey
I’ve kept rewriting my own eulogy since 1756.
It always started off as a punishing politeness. No accolades, just unfulfilled potential. For a man whose only companion is time, it had only bequeath me with apathy and shrewd curiosity for death. But alas, no grave markers bear my name nor history books tell my tales. I am barely a whisper in the cacophony of life. And yet, I am the unassuming witness to its many intricacies.
Do memories play faulty as sand castles dissolve and go back to the sea? Or does it become more accurate in colour for recurring dreams?
Sunsets are more reliable and constant. They persuade you to sigh the remnants of another day ending as it opens up again by the morn. No humanistic...
It always started off as a punishing politeness. No accolades, just unfulfilled potential. For a man whose only companion is time, it had only bequeath me with apathy and shrewd curiosity for death. But alas, no grave markers bear my name nor history books tell my tales. I am barely a whisper in the cacophony of life. And yet, I am the unassuming witness to its many intricacies.
Do memories play faulty as sand castles dissolve and go back to the sea? Or does it become more accurate in colour for recurring dreams?
Sunsets are more reliable and constant. They persuade you to sigh the remnants of another day ending as it opens up again by the morn. No humanistic...
