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Riddle me this: Why is a raven like a writing desk? – Lewis Carroll
© Elena Sinitsyna, 2017
Создано в интеллектуальной издательской системе Ridero
I have small candles. You know, such tiny tin jars, filled with paraffin. Every evening when I open the cover of my laptop, seedy in long journeys, I take one of these candles out of the small box which is on the piano, set fire and with the abrupt movement put it down in a house-lantern with holes cut through its sides. I like to type, drooping my head towards the flaming candle, looking from time to time at the lively fire, because it has the natural riot of thoughts and images essence, which the pale flicker of the computer’s screen is totally deprived of. At least, this is my opinion and there’s no need to be agree with.
It has been almost the circadian since there is no Internet in our district. Just think – twenty times of sixty minutes, but I am aching all over, tighting and curling up owing to the impossibility to escape from this uncivilized city, virtually at least. This is an illusion but I like millions of users stretch hands for it every morning, pressing on the start-bottom of the comp. I want it, I eager for it because I desire to receive, to be with it, to be it self… what is IT?
WHAT is it? What IS it, if loosing it I don’t find any place for myself, dashing between rooms and kitchen, poking bottoms of the TV set remote control; either rarely trying to drop off to sleep, wrapped up in a rug or diving into the near-empty fridge.
Books become arid and tedious, they simple turns my stomach. When it all com
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