It has been days since their last meeting. And the man is still feeling odd. But he cannot figure it out.
His great feet started to walk, leading him towards his private room. Moving nigher to his desk, he grabbed the paper and a pen.
Like his friends usually do, he wants to do the same thing correspondingly.
He started writing a letter to send to his companions, inviting them to join him for the weekend at his place. He needs someone to talk to, after all.
One night.
Two nights.
Three nights.
The man received almost no answer from his companions except one or two.
And the answer is an obstacle. As always.
"So, this is it..."
Now he knows.
The odd feeling he had felt since their last meeting.
"Knock my door, I will answer.
Knock their door, nobody's home."
YOU ARE READING
reflective reverie
RastgeleNot a story, not a poetry In short, not a work of art. Just a bunch of thoughts from a 'loner'.
