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Opening words were hard. A first impression, an indicator. A warning. He was searching for himself. Through the words of others more experienced, hoping that this arbitrary denominator would lead to a book that would eventually resolve his character. He needed a solution to an undetermined problem, freedom from an incomprehensible prison. Life, it seemed, had been judged unfair by our protagonist. He longed for a switch to be flipped: an instant transformation to a new life. He hoped for a different outlook: a more tolerant demenour. He would be satisfied with an escape, just for an hour or two. Anything. The nature of the world implied that a problem however nebulous requires a definite resolution. His problems had arisen from the life the world created for him, and so the answers too. Hundreds of lives condensed to pulp lay within his grasp. In all of them he would find what he defined as a definite resolution. They had the potential to change him, if he indeed wanted to be changed. They could teach him if he was willing to teach himself. Belief for our hero is a powerful tool. The mind will search for meaning in a desert. For purposes in life. He submitted himself to the hands of the increasingly attractive notion of fate, and renewed his seach.

Of course, the staggering possibilities and innumerable permutations of this search proved to protract this peruse for longer than was comfortable. Anxiety welled within him, like a child in a toy shop with five crisp new pounds. Of course he could choose more than one, but he felt that by choosing one could he fully absorb the text, any more would be unecessary distraction. It is probably safe to say, at this point, that at least as much time an effort had been spent bringing our hero to this point as could be readily expected to be expended during the inference of the book. In some ways, the search was more important. The particulars of the book itself were irrelevant, as long as they spared him a bout of anarchic humor. Standing on the brink of madness, cursing the heavans and the people beneath it, plucking up the courage to question for once more: only to be told it was spured by a whim. Surely, there was a reason and a purpose behind this, what other conclusion could a sensible and methodical man arrive at? Self destruction could be the only result. Standing on the brink of madness, now looking back on his life, the prospect of a crass causality seemed irrelevant when faced with the innumerable and untasted delights that existed. Surely he could accept the wonders and forge ahead with his goals without needing to know the ryhme, reason or destination.

an afternoon well spent?

Edit: Something I found in an old schoolbook, I felt that if there was ever a place for it, it'd be here.

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