I have taken to walking the streets of this city at night. Or at least when the sun isn't up, since "night" and "day" don't really have the same meaning here as they do in the real world. Hmm. The real world -- I still think of this place as unreal, unbelievable, impossible. Yet I've lived here how many weeks? Seen how much of this unreal city?
In all likelihood, I've only seen a fraction of a fraction. I see new buildings everyday here. Some I recognize as buildings I've seen before, but with new additions, new floors, new terraces, or the exact reverse. Skyscrapers which are now one-story tenements. Plazas which are now trash heaps (and yet all the trash looks clean, as if it isn't real trash at all, but the image of what trash should look like, if you understand what I'm saying).
And then today I found a library.
Look at it. Doesn't it look beautiful? Look at the arches (down the nights and down the days, down the arches of the years).
And how did I know this was a library? There were windows.
Ah, did I say windows? I meant glass displays of gorgeous rooms filled with books.
So I, of course, entered this library, passing from room to room, looking for a book to read. I passed from shelf to shelf, my fingers touching spines, until finally, giddy in spite of myself, I took down a book and opened it:
Eruyy Jpbr-Sol-Siwlnsi nohJ oazf zirold. M nbsx cl pyopslfk.Tljz ppbje mt davqld eok tm ja tajztie hnh J jar'u zei uoe apvd jpy tlf arifz. IM nh wvpugie hnh nbsx cl pyopslfk.
I flipped through the book. Every page was like this. Complete and total gibberish, not even with recognizable words like the signs at the movie theatre. Nothing I could comprehend.
I set the book back and picked up another:
I chose another book:
Samantha picked up the book, opened it and read:Samantha picked up the book, opened it and read:Samantha picked up the book, opened it and read:Samantha picked up the book, opened it and read:
I shut the book quickly. Even if this was the only non-gibberish book in the whole building, I have a feeling I still could not read it without going mad.
Finally, after hours of searching, I left the library without a book in my hands. My search had been a complete and utter failure.
And then a revelation hit me: what am I? I am a writer. Why am I here?
I am here to write.
All the books are gibberish. So I will write my own. I will write a book about this city. This is what I am here to do. This is my purpose.