Comte De Monte Cristo

Here rests the thoughts of an immortal, making of what the world hath thrown at him.

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Location: Paris, Island of Monte Cristo, Singapore

"My dear count," cried Morcerf, "you are at fault--you, one of the most formidable logicians I know--and you must see it clearly proved that instead of being an egotist, you are a philanthropist. Ah, you call yourself Oriental, a Levantine, Maltese, Indian, Chinese; your family name is Monte Cristo; Sinbad the Sailor is your baptismal appellation, and yet the first day you set foot in Paris you instinctively display the greatest virtue, or rather the chief defect, of us eccentric Parisians,--that is, you assume the vices you have not, and conceal the virtues you possess."

Friday, February 23, 2007

My absence.

The table has a layer of dust on it, particles of white and grey.
The clock still moves as sure it does and chimes 16 hours a day.
The windows stays shut and the curtains up.
The bed is made and the pillows arranged.
The study table has been neatly arranged and closed with a key.
The shelves remained untouched and the books silent.

All because their owner, has left for Austrialia.

posted by Purry The Magnificent | 2:10 AM

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