Remnants of a Dream

Although I was quite poor, somehow, a new shirt had come into my possession. The shirt had beautiful buttons, no two of them alike.

Having heard good buttons were valuable, I presented the shirt to a large, pale, flabby man standing behind a counter, hoping to exchange the article for a useful sum of money. The man glanced at the shirt, told me he had all the buttons he needed, then handed it back to me.

I had also brought a book. I had written the book myself. I no longer remembered what it was about, but I knew it was a good book � a book people would love to read, if only they had the chance. I gave the book to the man. Without bothering to open it, he explained that there was little need anymore for that kind of book � people liked different kinds now.

The man handed me the book. It had weathered considerably, and now there was a dirty thumb print on the cover.

I turned to go. The door, only a few feet from the counter when I had come in, now seemed miles away. After I had covered part of the distance, I stopped and looked back at the man who had deemed my book and my buttons worthless. He seemed familiar, like someone famous whose picture I had seen long ago in a newspaper or magazine, and whose life had since turned into an aimless cloud. That happens to people sometimes. Usually they don�t know it until they bump into a mountain, or get burned by the sun, or someone on the ground shoots holes in them with a toy bow and arrow.

I wish people wouldn�t do that. I wish they would feel pity for aimless clouds.

August 21, 2006

Previous Entry     Next Entry     Return to Songs and Letters     About the Author

Main Page
Author�s Note
A Listening Thing
Among the Living
No Time to Cut My Hair
One Hand Clapping
Songs and Letters
Collected Poems
Early Short Stories
Armenian Translations
News and Reviews
Highly Recommended
Let�s Eat
Favorite Books & Authors
Useless Information
E-mail & Parting Thoughts

Flippantly Answered Questions

Top of Page