A story which I’m still working on.

Drop a comment, tell me if you like it or not, if I get enough comments, I’ll definitely complete it.

Also accepting requests for new stories/articles/essays/whatever.

Thank you, and enjoy.

Jupiter, one of the 64 moons.

Who knew it could be so beautiful?

Or maybe, there’s nothing beautiful about it.

Maybe, maybe…

What is beauty though?

“Hey how have you been faring? For better or for worse?” My companion seems to ask, swaying in the breeze as though there was all the time in the world for it.

“I’m fine. How are the ants, gnawing at your?” I brood on their work, endlessly destroying other things in order to have the materials they need.

Can it ever end?

Will it ever end?

Perhaps though, things might change, the blossom in my hand whispers to me.

Yea, just maybe the sycamore murmurs to me.

I snort. “Change is stagnant, lazy…things never change…you know?” I reply, equally lazily.

The more things change, the more they stay the same, a marigold agrees dipping its head in acknowledgement.

“Does that mean I’ll be with you all, tending for you, all my life?”

Maybe something will change. You know it don’t you?

“Maybe it will…but I doubt it.” Frowning, I huff inside, wanting to be alone for a while.

“If a theorem isn’t beautiful, then it isn’t right.”

Left, right, left, right, left again, cross, watch out…

Such risk, and for what? So I can meet other people…

But do I need to?

“You need to meet all these beautiful people though!” You protest.

And probably in arrogance, I reply, “Yes, but how can you be assured, so certain that they’re beautiful, in one respect or another?”

I still played along, humored you.

And yet, I craved silence and calm.

You don’t seem satisfied with my level of conversation with other people. Oh, how I try, but it just seems so…


The latest grievance seems to be the homeless, and how they must be helped and fed, yet they are not so willing to house and feed them, at present.

They seek support, appreciation for their “selflessness”.

Snorting yet again, I seek to take my leave but you block the door.

“Going so soon, Henry?”

“Yes, yes I am. Sometimes I wonder who is more insane. Me or them.” Pointing an accusing finger in the general direction behind me.

How did it go? My sakura asks, exhibiting its pinkish white, delicate blossoms.

“Insane, absolutely insane. Sometimes I wonder why people think that I’m crazy.”

I muse, stroking the soft petals.

“Maybe that’s just the beauty of people.”

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