If the life of a man could be a book, and if that book belonged to a small bookshop owner in the middle of nowhere, then the book I hold now in my hands, as I sit on this bench pondering such things, is surely the life of my father. 310Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9SoRtZSzMR
It's cover is a faded red, the title long lost to time so it is only when I turned the first page that I saw why I felt so drawn to this paperback of all the others that line these walls - the title, Bunnius Bearus, my father's name! Good Gosh Darn Goodness!
So naturally I bought the book with loose shillings, and that brings us to now as I perch on a bench not far from the bookshop. I go to open the worn book once more - how odd, my hand is trembling ever so slightly - and this time the page reads something quite different. How can this be? I flip between pages to check if it is the same one as before - all the others are blank, except the one that reads, "I'm so bored that I'm writing this thing that makes no sense. Also, I got my second ear piercing today and I'm very happy with it. I had a nice day and I don't know how to turn that into a blog post, so this happened."
How odd. I think I know how this can be, changing words in print, yes - it must be cursed! It was probably old Bunnius' name that did it, the old crook. There's only one logical thing to do.310Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAju6iizyHS
I must drown it in the local river. 310Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVLpWzgGcjt
Obviously. 310Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeTqQLlpWTY
...
The book shrieks as I hold it underwater, and struggles too, but my bones and flesh are stronger than it's paper and glue binding. As it dies, I almost think I hear it scream, "This is taking a weird route, I should probably stop talking now."
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