Passing these old paper notes attached to every possible flat surface he was feeling as a bookworm. A lonely old clumsy worm that happened to find himself in a pile of old forgotten magazines. He forgot how he appeared in this city and this small street leading to nowhere. Frankly speaking he wasn’t even sure whether it’s a city and if this narrow paper passage can be called a street. But still here it was, and here was he. Walking to nowhere.
There were all sorts of papers starting from huge ones covering halves of the walls to really small ones no more than a finger wide. Each of them was shouting something, numbers, letters, words..they were flying, laying, sitting, curling everywhere..forming a flow of random phrases and numbers..papers of all colours and shapes on purpose or not were somehow brought there. He tried to read some phrases at first, trying to find any logic in this flow..but the more he tried the less reasonable this idea seemed..He just found himself lost in the middle of nowhere…
The paper tunnel wasn’t as straight as it seemed, it was turning along with the letters’ curling, it was changing all the time. No surprise he got lost so easily just walking along the same street. Who and why had put all these notes? They were everywhere..leaving walls and attaching again to the completely different places..There was no chance to predict their ways.
He was walking. How much time had passed? Few minutes? An hour? A week? He kept walking. Sometimes in a desperate attempt tried to run, tried to get away. But there was no escape same as there was no turn back. There were only those stupid notes. He noticed how his walk changed. He was following some particular rhythm the tunnel had. Those notes’ changes weren’t as random as he thought before. There was a melody, a tune he hadn’t noticed..It was hypnotizing, welcoming and..warm.
He felt that tunnel. He felt that tune. He knew were he belongs. He was that dammit bookworm.