Whitened shade of pale

A girl. Curious. Freely wandering in the alley. White spot. Right. Hole. Takes the paper, no reading. Hand, dry touch. Bench. The girl opens her hand and looks into it. Eyes.

Day. The hand of the man is wet. The paper soaks a bit. Not much, though. The left. Leaves, looks back once.

She. Tense. Not much. Puts her hand in the hole. Paper! Bench.

Next day. Next day. Next. Night. No day. Evening.

Rain. Coat. Not rain coat. The paper gets wet. Soaks. A lot. Dark. White stone. A minute, touch, the hole. Put.

Time. Old man. Dry paper. A sun is shining. Through bushes. Lime-trees smell lightly. The grass is green again. But empty. The stone is gone. Paper. No paper.

Woman. Relaxed. Meaning. Words. Written. Not so. Green grass. No point. Goes home. Home. Garden. Stone pyramid. Huge cage. Huge. Full. White paper. Pieces. Blank. Empty. All of them.

She sits by the fire, throws a log. Light. Reading. Memories. Imagination. Or memories?

The man. No fire. Not much light. Small candle. Poor vision. Memory, though. Or imagination? Writes again. The ink is truly gone. Same as all the years. Hundreds of small letters. Crooked a bit but readable. Sentences. Meaning?

A bird. Old one. Every morning sings on the stone. Curious. Hole. Can't see the white paper. Because of all the ink.

Old woman. No ink. No ink. No words. Many papers. Cold. No logs. Fire. Papers. Light.

The man is reading a book in important cover. Says: no word has its meaning outside the reading. No sentence has. The man is thinking: What did I write? Further. No way to know. Writing is not reading. Can't know the meaning. If you do not read. The man sits by the candle. Takes a blank piece of paper and writes on it. Seriously. Puts words and all sorts of other stuff. The ink. Then closes his eyes. Just for a second. Nothing moves. The candle guards the silence and the still. The man opens his eyes. Same paper. Same hands. No motion. No words. No meaning. Can't read what is not written. But it was ?

Last. She is holding the same paper. You can tell by the small corner torn in the left down side. Words. Stuff. Meaning. She reads. Same white paper. What has been written? Can't tell. Just reads.

Ink. Goes into letters. Words. Else. Then, it goes into a dove. White one. It is a message. Therefore, it is a letter. The dove, though, has a purpose. To reach the recipient. Don't forget it's letter. When the dove leaves the hand it is not there any more. It is only a message in the next hand. And it is not back. Nice bird. Soul. White. Message. Got to feed.

Letters. Life of their own. Because they take one. And give one. Not letters. Dove.