Text

The windows are open and the curtains are blown about by the breeze. The delicate and silver waxing crescent moon shimmers light through the window, bordered by a cloister of darkness in which her eyes wander to the chair nearby.

There lies a text. It's cold… steam rises off the towel now strewn on the chair. She picks up the text, her fingertips pressing lightly against the spine. She holds it open, looking inside at the notes along the spine. She can't shake the feeling of being possessed; likened to standing on the precipice of something. Her heart beats are steady, her mind calm, but also aware of the heightened state of being that is aroused by reading such a text. She searches in the half-dark on the nearby desk for a pencil, finding it in the moonlight, to resume her note taking of thoughts arising as if from out of nowhere.