Small Game

I decided to play a little game. I was finally going to have both fun and a criminal. If it weren't my words but my stories were stolen, then I wasn't going to write a story until the time came. I kept picking up my words.

I wasn't just keeping them in the notebook anymore. I cut down what I found in the newspapers, and I wrote down each of them on separate papers and collected them in a bag. So many words came that time has become very precious to me. Some days I let myself sleep for only a few hours, and it was daytime, because when everyone else was sleeping, they were getting plentiful and I could easily pick them up.

After all, I had a different talent than all the other writers, and I had to use it in the most useful way. Several times the lady came. My sleepless and tired state will attract her more, touching my hands with my hair and told me that I have a glamorous affection. When I brought your body closer to my body, I was more and more confused. I wanted to stick my nose in the chest fork and just stay there thinking. The pressure pains filled my groin. One part of me wanted to disappear in her gentle velvety warmth, while the other part hated remembering that she was a manual labor trap.

There was only a dry cover on the desk. I don't have any assets to steal. His visits began to wane, and I was not obsessed with my old writing anymore. I've collected hundreds of stories of words and sounds, and I keep collecting.

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