One writer without inspiration, which is always the worst for a writer, accidentally wandered through the city in search of a rarity shop. The day was pretty warm, so he stopped by, almost to the end, to get a little cool, seeing that the shop had a climate. Indeed, it was really quite cold in the morning, and also because it was light on the outside (the day was hot) and quite dark. The saleswoman sat at the counter reading something, and she barely looked at him frowningly.
In the shop, there was everything for everyone. Old and new books, objects of completely unnecessary, but also somewhat masterful work of silversmith, weaving and golden craftsmanship. Some parts of the shop were like a pharmacy, some full of dust. It was quite large, he concluded, since she did not have a big showcase, and my god, or almost no advertisement. Looking in the direction of an uninterested dealer, he realized that he could steal somewhat from something because he did not even stand with money. That was the time. He would have thought that he could be stolen somewhere, or if he liked the subject, he even kept it for himself. There were several stones for which, he thought, it could be concluded that typical alem-stones if they really existed. But he was a writer without inspiration, so he was deeply engaged in the same. He had to, it was his tool for work.
Love, Faith, Hope. Eros and Thanatos. Without it, there is no good story, he knew. He was extremely experienced, so the team was angry at him how it could have happened that his inspiration dried up. „It’s from the heat,“ he thought, tiring himself up.
There was also an incredible collection of Persian carpets. One was flying, he was almost certain of it. There were also knives, handguns, Ko’ragh’s Boot Knife, daggers. Cooking, turning knives, warping, and butcher knives. Bekuta, ear, rondel, bollock dagger, cinquedeas, stiletto, curator, srbosjek, (only one, lucky). Male and female, very small. Plates, dishes, cups, jewelry, dream catcher, old tablecloths. An incredible Ottoman and a few enthusiastic sofas … He got into an enchanted … His eyes fluttered to the counter, behind which the saleswoman had just set off to a side room. The situation was ideal for stealing, so it was faster, as the merchant did not return in the next minutes, a knife and a pebble were pierced in their pockets.
He ran out of the shop as fast as the wind was. As it was still finished, and the great city, he continued to wander, occasionally touching his pocket. To be understood, every writer sometimes falls low, but, this was really the bottom of the bottom, he thought in himself. „I’m stealing a nonsense, not a person’s life,“ he worried. The evening went home, and the inspiration came as a mighty big river. He spent the night writing. Since then, he started much better.
He wrote, had inspiration, lived full lungs. The items he stole were worthless, he was worn out for evaluation, but as though they were hostile. Life was beautiful again. In any case, he occasionally went to the shop and took a little bit of a scare, screaming. Several times he bought something from an uninterested merchant that never looked up from the book she read. He was infinitely bored to steal, but he somehow knew in himself that this small, shameless act, had a deeper meaning than perhaps his storyteller’s career depended. Well, it was not a fucking Sheeherezada, he knew, although, like every writer, he hoped for it. It was a standard and that was to be achieved. „Fucking, fucking Sheherezade,“ he thought in himself, cursing terribly. The following year he did not even need theft. Everything went smoothly. He published and even received support from literary criticism, periodicals and publishers. Sometimes he was publishing on literary portals over the Internet, although he was more of an old-fashioned way. Fuck the book if it’s not from paper. „Fuck Kindle, who the fuck, what is it?“ He joked with his literary friends.
Early in the morning, when he came back from the crazy party, he was in the taxi. In one moment, the car broke down. The cab driver was bogged down, and could not do anything, he had to call the tow truck. Our writer (now, we could call him that way) decided not to take another taxi, but to walk to the nearest bus stop, and he waited for the first morning bus.
He smelled of success, women, good drink. He smelled of strength and adventure. Inspiration. He stretched himself and walked slowly. He walked past the shop, not looking back. Still, when he had already passed, he realized that the shop was open and that he could enter it. „And I have not had anything to worry about long ago, everything is my genius,“ he thought satisfied.
The shopkeeper looked at him, for the first time. He stopped breathing for a second. She had the darkest eyes he’d ever seen. There was too much unbearable beauty and pain in them. The whole universe of possibilities. „Fuck you …“ he thought, charmed. She turned to take something, and the writer sneaked off to the shelves. It was surprisingly many new items, almost minimalist. Not a bit of dust, with the reflection of new metals, like in some fantastic surgery clinic. Attention was attracted by one mirror. Tiny, barely palm-sized. It was so incredibly precise and polished, transmitting a hundred-year-old true life, which was too much for a mirror.
When he looked at it along the way, he was lost in it forever.