books are secrets written down.. if noone reads them? who cares what is written in them.

During my university’s days I used to haunt a used bookstore. The books there were magical. Like secret objects. Why? This bookstore cared for one of a kind books. If some author who the public had never heard of got tired and self-published and it was worth anything. You could find a used book of it there in the shelves. The problem there was no rhyme or reason for the arrangement of the books. The gentleman that owned the store was an oddity. Between him and the clock shop next door. I figured the public universities owed these graduates something better. Never the less, I was there every other Saturday to purchase three or four books at half the price.

Half price books good for a college student working. Attending class full time and well doing other things to read at least an extra book or three a week. The used bookstore and clock shop went out of business when I was not around. Why? I figured over a five-year stay at the university. I probably purchased at least ten thousand dollars’ worth of used books. Why? Some of what was in those books held information that no one in their right mind would believe. Let alone claim to own a complete collection of original works of. Any ways after some years some of those books disappeared. I thought that was strange. So I kept a list. And then the list would change. I know it sounds like dementia and at first I thought so too. So I got checked out. Nope. So I started to journal my book collection. Why? Some more abnormal ideological books had gone missing. Like? The universe is a play. The sun is behind the projector. Energy is light. Making all of us everything material that is roughly a hologram. I supposed in summarization of what I remember of it.
Well, one day there was a knock on at the door. I opened it and there was a red suitcase. No note. I naturally looked around. No one was there. I brought it in. Was about to call the police for a lost and found item. When the latch opened and a book fell out with a note.
The note was interesting. I knew the person who wrote it. We had bumped into each other many times at the bookstore. The content of the letter was mysterious. That the person remembered my name was an honor. Why? I had heard that he had won some physic or math lifetime achievement award. Through the university’s alumni letter. That the letter was disturbing a bit.
In it, his apologies for obstructing my reality. I thought for a moment. I did not recollect any such thing. So I read on. Well. The mystery got deeper. In the letter he claims that I or someone in a parallel reality had once upon a time owned the book. And that he had stolen it. Since he mentioned the book, I opened it. The book became in reality a live storybook. You ask how so? It was like a computer or kindle. What ever thought or suggestion you had on your mind it would view or make it into a story. I went back to the letter. His explanation seemed clear. That in some reality or another I had purchased the book. And mistakenly asked for his help on seeing what they made it out.
The letter said that somehow by viewing the book he had removed my memory of this and had taken the book.
Well. So much for friendship, I suppose. The tale end of the letter explained that he was dead. If I got the book and that, I should always keep it in the red leather suitcase. To ensure reality as he said, it was not too much disturbed by other people’s thoughts if I read it around them.
So I picked up the book. It was something. I thought about the time he mentioned in his letter about why I would ask someone to look at it? The story it told me shocked me to the core of my soul. Let alone had I had the book. I had used it in a manner not so nice. How so? I was curious I had asked it how and who were the prior owners of the book.
The story was, is, and will be wild to let you know. From Walt Disney to one of his cartoonist. Who stole it from Disney? To some wizard in 1700s. To a shape shifter. To well a pirate, to a Talon, to the original owner of the book. Who appeared to be well. At least the page showed that it did all this. God.
Sounds strange, I know. However, when I asked and how it appeared to happen is what freaks me out the most. Why? It was not just reading the words. It was seeing through the eyes of those desiring those things that caused the most vivid dreams.
Like? Image you are a pirate that somehow got caught in the whirlpool that circles the globe. And while in the whirlpool, the reason reality seems to cease to exist. And continues to swirl is those caught in it are. Are for a better plumber explanation drained from one world to another world it pours those caught into a distinct reality. Until whatever it is, you are on spits you out in a different time and reality. Wild? Now imaging you are reading this and somehow being able to interact with the person? Meaning? If you read something and say why is this happening. The book would literally explain it to you in a detail you could understand. That begin an adventure. I do keep the book in the suitcase. It is my second most favorite book. Why second? Well. You see at that bookstore I had purchased one of the journals of the pirate in the book. Meaning?



During my university’s days I used to haunt a used bookstore. The books there were magical. Like secret objects. Why? This bookstore cared for one of a kind books. If some author who the public had never heard of got tired and self-published and it was worth anything. You could find a used book of it there in the shelves. The problem there was no rhyme or reason for the arrangement of the books. The gentleman that owned the store was an oddity. Between him and the clock shop next door. I figured the public universities owed these graduates something better. Never the less, I was there every other Saturday to purchase three or four books at half the price.
Half price books good for a college student working. Attending class full time and well doing other things to read at least an extra book or three a week. The used bookstore and clock shop went out of business when I was not around. Why? I figured over a five-year stay at the university. I probably purchased at least ten thousand dollars’ worth of used books. Why? Some of what was in those books held information that no one in their right mind would believe. Let alone claim to own a complete collection of original works of. Any ways after some years some of those books disappeared. I thought that was strange. So I kept a list. And then the list would change. I know it sounds like dementia and at first I thought so too. So I got checked out. Nope. So I started to journal my book collection. Why? Some more abnormal ideological books had gone missing. Like? The universe is a play. The sun is behind the projector. Energy is light. Making all of us everything material that is roughly a hologram. I supposed in summarization of what I remember of it.
Well, one day there was a knock on at the door. I opened it and there was a red suitcase. No note. I naturally looked around. No one was there. I brought it in. Was about to call the police for a lost and found item. When the latch opened and a book fell out with a note.
The note was interesting. I knew the person who wrote it. We had bumped into each other many times at the bookstore. The content of the letter was mysterious. That the person remembered my name was an honor. Why? I had heard that he had won some physic or math lifetime achievement award. Through the university’s alumni letter. That the letter was disturbing a bit.
In it, his apologies for obstructing my reality. I thought for a moment. I did not recollect any such thing. So I read on. Well. The mystery got deeper. In the letter he claims that I or someone in a parallel reality had once upon a time owned the book. And that he had stolen it. Since he mentioned the book, I opened it. The book became in reality a live storybook. You ask how so? It was like a computer or kindle. What ever thought or suggestion you had on your mind it would view or make it into a story. I went back to the letter. His explanation seemed clear. That in some reality or another I had purchased the book. And mistakenly asked for his help on seeing what they made it out.
The letter said that somehow by viewing the book he had removed my memory of this and had taken the book.
Well. So much for friendship, I suppose. The tale end of the letter explained that he was dead. If I got the book and that, I should always keep it in the red leather suitcase. To ensure reality as he said, it was not too much disturbed by other people’s thoughts if I read it around them.
So I picked up the book. It was something. I thought about the time he mentioned in his letter about why I would ask someone to look at it? The story it told me shocked me to the core of my soul. Let alone had I had the book. I had used it in a manner not so nice. How so? I was curious I had asked it how and who were the prior owners of the book.
The story was, is, and will be wild to let you know. From Walt Disney to one of his cartoonist. Who stole it from Disney? To some wizard in 1700s. To a shape shifter. To well a pirate, to a Talon, to the original owner of the book. Who appeared to be well. At least the page showed that it did all this. God.
Sounds strange, I know. However, when I asked and how it appeared to happen is what freaks me out the most. Why? It was not just reading the words. It was seeing through the eyes of those desiring those things that caused the most vivid dreams.
Like? Image you are a pirate that somehow got caught in the whirlpool that circles the globe. And while in the whirlpool, the reason reality seems to cease to exist. And continues to swirl is those caught in it are. Are for a better plumber explanation drained from one world to another world it pours those caught into a distinct reality. Until whatever it is, you are on spits you out in a different time and reality. Wild? Now imaging you are reading this and somehow being able to interact with the person? Meaning? If you read something and say why is this happening. The book would literally explain it to you in a detail you could understand. I asked to see what or how I had gotten it originally. And if I had written in it and I got disturbed. What I saw was evil. Me? No. However, I changed it. How? It is a book and if I wanted to remove evil in some reality, I just did. I had no desire to see evil in this one or any. So I changed the story. That is when things really got disturbing in reality.
Why? You have heard of the Mandela effect? Well, imagine if you will a parallel reality. Now imagine 10,000 parallel realities. Now imagine 1 billion times that 10,000 parallel realities. Now imagine if someone went back and changed history. Instead of people wanting to be greedy over a piece of paper printed out of a hoax bank. They want lima beans. Or someone that tripped over a banana peel. Who never did without some evil interaction. And became someone else outside of the high school joke.
The example of changes were many. Why? Because this one page was from God’s library or his personal book of life. Imagine all stories being corrected. Now the transformation occurred however not in the way one would have expected. Meaning? I desired that wrong made right. It was a simple form of justice.

The issue? The book took another approach of instead of ripping a reality to shreds. It took people’s minds from one reality to well another. To their own realities where they could or met their destiny story. Why? Remember, I said, what I had seen was something evil? Well. It really had happened a long time ago. It had had been a fragment of reality, of a different time and place or space.

The desire for a material world to exist without the end of the bible. So imagine a billion fragments of a soul spread across time and space. Each soul supposed to meet Mr or Mrs. Right or gone to this or that party or knew this person or did this had some fatal flaw thrown into their story. Why? To be honest, I could not understand that part of the story. Was I responsible for this flawed realities? I doubt it. If I lived billions of years, there is no way in all reality I could have done what I say being done. However, the book showed something. So I wished for it.
I just wished that the right stories would match up. That single wish became what the Mandela effect is today. And the book in the red suitcase? The secret of the book is it is going back to its rightful owner. The Vatican? No. They have for whatever purpose the book of the Dragon. The page I have is going home.