a Storyteller

Write me a beautiful world my sweet

unbolt me

He comes every evening.
He sits near my bed and reads tales. The terrible tales.

How Wolf devours Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White eats a poisoned apple and Cruel Giant swallows Tom Thumb…

Every evening he ruins my naive childish dreams about the Perfect World.
He calls this ‘adaptation’ and ‘preparing for your adulthood‘.
And he leaves my room with a sense of accomplishment.

I cry… but not so long. I have a low level of adaptation… it’s written in my anamnesis, and I do believe in the power of written words. I just take a pen and start to correct all mistakes… to repair the non-perfect, spoiled world.

Tom Thumb swallows cruel giants… Snow White hates apples and Little Red Riding Hood devours wolves. That looks much better. I fall asleep with a smile… and with thoughts about this strange word… ‘hyperlexia‘. It’s…

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