The apartment was full of colors.
The walls, the furniture, even the book were colors.
Warm.

Nothing was black or white.
Someone prohibited them. Or they did not exist anymore.
Who knows?

The room was bright.
An open balcony to the world.
But the world was empty.

He held all the world inside his hands.
His unique book.
And maybe the last.

He read the black letters upon the white paper.
And inside him the ink was running.

His body had the tiredness of pain.
But at least he was alive.

He no longer remembered the weight that he had lifted.
The only sure thing was the weight of light.

He wasn’t crying. He couldn’t.
They haven’t learnt him how to.

He only knew how to work day and night.
He only lived at night.
After the daily wage.

And after the everything of everyday routine he was reading the nothing.
He read not to forget.
He should not forget.
The color of invisible.