I closed the window for the chilly wind blow in snowflakes, snowflakes are water, and water ruins paper, leather, and smears ink.
That is what my books are made of so no snowflakes may touch them for they may destroy my friends, books my friends, books my only friends.
I return to my seat, My spot in my friend.
I sit on the couch covered in blankets and pillows in front of a fire place, but their is no fire, for fire burns paper and leather for that is what my friends are made of, so no fire.
The couch is pushed to where the sunlight comes throw the window lands right where I read, every half a hour I move the couch over so I may see.
The rest of the room is selfs full of books, their are even piles of books on the ground. For I have read all my friends, as I read other books my already read friends wait to be read again.
In my hands I hold a leather book called 'under the mistletoe', for every day before Christmas Eve I read it.
My long white nails flip a page every time I finish reading the text.
A long strain of my hair falls in front of my face, it's pale red self swinging in the light wind it's self blocking the text on the yellow pages. I carefully push the hair behind my ear so I may read better, then rubbling my pink glossy lips together I keep reading.
YOU ARE READING
White Lies
RomanceElakshi, last person alive in her family, the Mamo Family of power full Mages (Witches and Warlocks). When her father is murdered and the domos start to fall new people start to come into her life weather she wants it or not. Several years later se...
