The Book Store

The books they filled with stories to tell. One by one they'd grow. To me, they did not matter much. Merely papers left to collect dust. In the hall, hanging on walls, the towers grew. Everything became musty, the pages now old and yellow. To some these books meant everything, each one a new island for them to hold. Towns, states, continents, all reduced to one place. Not everyone loved these pieces, yet some couldn't stop clinging to the worn-out pages. Would something happen, I could not care less, and at last someone appeared with a match. All of these stories gathered in one place, a group of souls to fully dissipate. I'd watch you while the fire burned in your eyes, only to spread across space and time. The smoke it grew to a suffocating degree, but nothing could stop you from eradicating our sins. Even when my time here passed, I didn't leave to await the clean slate. There was nothing spectacular about this. The next day you were already leaving, away and out of sight. No one regretted your passion and joy, and no one regrets your eternal silence now. A bygone city or long-lost friend, our world no longer, and your souls turned ash.