The Inventor

The follow is a series of pages that have been stapled together, from a series of books of pages that have been stapled together, from a series of piles of books of pages that have been stapled together that seems to be more or less endless.

Page One:

This page is blank, and it appears to have been, at one point, a crumpled piece of paper, though it is now smoothed out.

. . .

Page Four:

There are the beginnings of shapes drawn upon the page now.

. . .

Page Twenty:

This page has an odd assortment of letters and other symbols scrawled across it, seemingly at random. A few scattered words can be seen.

. . .

Page Forty-Two

Written in a simplistic, block-letter style.

Hello there!

I invented language a good while ago (though syntax was a great pain), but it took me awhile to get writing down pat, especially since I had to invent paper and a writing utensil first, and then figure out how to use them.

I must say, though, things have been much more interesting of late. At first, when I invented myself, things were pretty boring. Inventing up and down and gravity and light and heat was fun for awhile, and inventing colours and sounds kept me entertained for who knows how long, but the novelty wore off after awhile.

But now! Now I'm inventing new and exciting things all the time. Did you know, the other day, I invented something I like to call Drjsk!

Hmmm... you know, that doesn't look too good on paper. Ooh! I think I just invented aesthetics! But where was I, before I invented distraction? Ah yes, drjsk. I think it needs a new name, something sound-y, because it uses sounds. I think I'll call it... ing... inging! No, something is missing there... pinging? No no no, it will have to be singing. That's a good word for it!

At any rate, I invented singing! It was wonderful! It's a sort of yelling, but with nicer sounds, and sometimes you even just say words, but again, with nicer sounds. It's like decorated speaking!

I wonder, is there such thing as decorated writing?

The rest of the page is random scribbling.

. . .

Page Forty-Six

About halfway down the page, the scribblings begin to evolve into a flowing, if simplistic, script.

...occupied. Well! That's much better! Legible, yet artistic. Oh, I invented art in my spare time while I was trying to invent cursive writing. It's nearly as good as singing! It's like singing for the eyes!

Anyway, I invented this wonderful thing called a stapler, and I've been using it to keep all of these pages organized. It's nice to have it all in one place. I think I'll invent a shelf for it...

The rest of the page is rambling on about inventing various mundane things, as well as the advantages of sitting versus standing.

. . .

Page Eight Hundred Twenty Four

The invention of deep thinking has really got me in a bit of a pickle.

I know I exist, or seem to anyway, in this Place, which is coloured what I like to call 'white', and stretches on for a very long way. I nearly got lost, one time, trying to find the edge of it, and I didn't get much of anywhere. The only reason I'm not still out there is that I invented binoculars and spotted a tree I had invented back at Home.

The point being, even though I invented myself, I don't seem to be able to invent another of me, and there's nothing like me around here. It seems like what I call inventing has some limits. Like, for instance, I cannot invent why I am here.

I know how I am here; first there was nothing, then I invented myself, and this place; but other than that, not much is clear to me. I shall need to take some time to ponder this.

Ta for now,
The Inventor

The End

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