![]() His mind was still focused on the field, but this time he paid attention. He had no reason for that but somehow the vision of his usual evening news-checking was unappealing. ![]() When he drove home, as his daughter was happily rambling about her day at school, the rhythm of his fingers on the wheel grew less chaotic than before.īefore sleep, he reread the book. At work, his pen kept on doodling on his notes, sketches becoming more elaborate as he thought about the field. He drummed his fingers against the wheel during his morning commute. There was something elusive in it and fascinating, attracting his attention over and over again, his thoughts circling back to it when brushing his teeth or dressing up or preparing breakfast or waking up his daughter. He snapped out of it after snooze rang again.ĭuring his usual morning rituals his thoughts kept on circling back to that field. He still wondered about that strange field. He lied down in bed until the alarm rang but he didn't hear it. Maybe he dreamt something strange- but no, he remembered something vague about a field covered in flowers with hundreds of bunnies made out of clay hopping around happily. He woke up tired, which was unusual for he had slept his usual eight hours. He put it aside, turned off the light and went to sleep. He never was one for critique aside from describing his own feelings in a few words. It was strange, that was all he could say. He finished the book in about half an hour. He grew bored with each finished sentence but every next one somehow forced him to continue his reading, stopping from time to time to wonder how the pictures were connected to the text only to read on and discover the connection. The story was a bit strange he felt as if he started in the middle, characters not known to him mentioning names of people he never heard of, making references to events he didn't really care about and doing strange things in places he could only guess about. He returned to the first page, ensured that the position he was in was comfortable enough and started to read. He flipped through it, here and there holding the book open for a little bit longer to admire the precision of drawn lines. The letters inside - and that was a surprise - were written by hand, the text sometimes giving place to black illustrations, all neatly photocopied. ![]() It was made of printer-quality paper, cheap stuff. He put his laptop away for now, his full attention on the book. Sometimes he read some things on the internet, short, something he could read in maybe 20-30 minutes. He rarely read books, as they never managed to hold his concentration for long enough. ![]() He found it again in the evening, when he was undressing before going to sleep. He paid it no mind, threw it into the bag, forgot about it until much later. Some girl gave it to him on the street, smiling nicely and asking for him to read it. ![]()
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