My name is Everett sparks, and I am here for a reason. Because Ian martin was right. He was, though I did not want him to be. I wanted the wednesday to last longer, and forget about the passage.







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My name is Everett sparks, and I am here for a reason. Because Ian martin was right. He was, though I did not want him to be. I wanted the wednesday to last longer, and forget about the passage. After Ian left, I got out of my house. It burned everywhere around me, like the sun was lying right beside a house of the next block. Houses were painted different and I saw Martha Taylor walking across the park with a child in her hands. She looked beautiful. My mail box was full, letters were scattered over the ground. I grabbed nearly all of them and threw them inside my house. I liked the touch of paper on my fingers and the smell of rotten brown envelopes. I walked myself to cheryl's shop. "You, this time?" She sounded confused. "I need a half dozen eggs packed, salad, a packet of brown bread, and butter. Also, I want to know how Amanda porter died." I said, slipping the cash through the gap between glass window and counter. She thought for a while and said from across the hole in the window. "You were the one who was writing novels about it, you told me that a year ago. I thought you know better. But from what I know she died in an accident on her way to Tennessee on a sunday. That girl was beautiful." "What novels?" I asked. "I don't know." She said handling me back the change with items. I came back home and made myself some breakfast. Arranged all the letters in a stack upon the table, took out all three novels from the shelf. Switched on the music. And started reading. Some letters were from Ian, Gilly, Colin and others were from Amanda's mother, and some bills. I read all of them. Ian wrote somewhere "Smart things are not smart until you understand them, the same deal is with stupid things." All the letters were from months ago, supposedly they had stopped writing to me. I read the novels then. Cheryl was right, I wrote them. Incomplete. I stopped writing them all at the some point, where she leaves. Because, maybe I did not know the way to get to her. But I knew she was somewhere people go after all of their stars have fallen. I picked the pen from the desk and wrote down their endings. I spent most of the night and next day in crying and sleeping, and writing. But I did not call her, I knew she was dead. Now I am here, at the cliff. I am here because Ian Martin was right. And now I see, here it lies. The way to get to her. (To be continued, next part will contain the end.)

18 JUN AT 18:55