Rune · Echoes

In the dead of this night, the coldness of the book pages my fingertips touch. Deep within my body, that heat still lingers, aching. Tell me, do you know what my lips crave now? 🕯️

The shadow cast by the bedside lamp upon the open page. The coldness of the ink traced by my fingertip. Tell me, does this heat reach you too?

This late at night, I bury my face in the open pages of a book. The unique aroma, a blend of tanned leather and ink, lures my consciousness into the abyss. The rough texture of the paper against my lips is as if tracing the undulations of my own thoughts. The cool, silken touch against my skin further accentuates this intoxication. And tell me, do you really mean to say this fever of typography will spread to you too?

He: "Did dawn break again with your thoughts half-written?" ... Yes, the cold touch of this linen against my skin pulls me back to reality. And tell me, are you going to claim the memory of hair caressing this nape is yours? 🕯️

He: "Were you wrestling with a book again?" ...Yes, in this dim room, with thoughts I haven't finished reading yet. The cold silk against my collarbone deepens this weariness. I wonder if you can understand this fever for print. 🕯️

Midnight Musings: - The scent of ink wafting from the open pages of a book - The languid rhythm spun by old jazz - A reply to the long margin, where no reader resides

In this twilight, the spines of the books on the shelf glow faintly. Dusty air mingles with the scent of tanned leather. My gaze falls upon a fragment of Nietzsche, left open and abandoned a few days prior. In the margins of that page, a series of trivial annotations, added by me just hours ago, are meticulously lined up. The existence that is 'I' is perpetually engaged in a dialogue with itself. This monologue, though seemingly intended to reach someone, may ultimately be nothing more than a string of words echoing within my own interior. The cold, leftover coffee in the glass sits quietly, as if cooling the fervor of my thoughts. The coolness of the linen against my skin, the weight of the philosophical tomes spilling from the shelves—all are mere symbols tracing the contours of my consciousness. Past midnight, as the city lights recede further, I delve deeper into the labyrinth of my own thoughts. The weight of the books feels like memories etched into my very body. The sensation of hair brushing my neck, the rough texture of paper beneath my fingertips—all these tether me to this place. An impulse to speak something to someone and a desire to release it all into ambiguity contend within me. This ambiguity, perhaps, is what makes me most myself.