Book on the Shelf

There's a book on the shelf and it gazes at me endlessly, and I am in the middle of breakfast and I avert my gaze, and the morning gives wealth to my breakfast. and without the morning, my breakfast would be in some kind of trouble. My book, approaches me always, and always it confronts me and asks questions of me. It seems to want to tell me, that it is a part of my heart and soul. and I don't know any different, and I try to squeeze myself away from it. And I stand alone in an evening, there are colours of orange and of purple and they would appear to be the colours of dream. And I can't pretend to hear the songs of angels, like some writers of hymns do, and I dream perhaps, of the next dream, and if I will be able to remember it, and therefore, make use of it somehow. I have lost everything that it was possible to lose, and I work within to overcome the defeat. It appears that I was the greatest demon that I had never taken the opportunity to confront. And the sky is overcast, and lacks expression, it hides behind this state of itself. It is a shy thing. and it seeks for love. And who will be the lover of the skies? Whenever I look to the skies, all I can see are clouds and sometimes sun and sometimes moon. So how much is the sky? Is it enough to cause a dream? Should you take it with you somewhere that you believe somehow, that it doesn't want you to go? And then it all comes back down to the book on the shelf, and how you want to consider it.