In the centre of a robust antique table lied a big red book, open on page 69. There, surrounded by letters that formed quite an incomprehensible text, was a capital V. In the top of the right-hand pillar of that letter lived the creature Bree, whose origins we have no knowledge of.
Most of his time was spent absorbing light to feed himself with energy, resting after a hard day's work of photon-swallowing and, what he thought as most important, keeping himself away from a pentagram, positioned three inches from home on the same page. To him, it represented a big well, where you can fall in, but can't climb out. His girlfriend, once named Melinda, had, by an unfortunate accident, fallen on it. Now she called herself the Tame.
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They had stumbled upon an awkward scene: In front of a big wooden cottage on a short wooden stool sat a legless duck. What it lacked in legs, it made up with an actual human hand that stretched out under its left wing. It was in a speech-frenzy, shouting out words in the most frantic way while constantly pulling a lever with it's hand that every time resulted a bucketful of water being poured on top of its head. The Wet Duck, as the folks had named it, was one of the most respected speakers of the memory – it had a strong link with the waves of existential memory, catching small bits of it to transfer it through its mouth to anyone willing to listen.
„The Man is a Son, but has children of his own. It is all expressed in his present state: prancing around like a deer on his way to visit an uncle with offsprings left home for the wife to worry about. The path is of sand and dirt, scenery of light-absorbing life and the time is a cold morning. Another mind is lying on the dirty road – a small four-legged two-taled teethless dog – a mile away from the Man. But he sees the dog in his ears and nose, resulting a sight of need in the spirit. He abandons the rightful path for a moment and retrieves the pup. It results a fusion of gratefulness and amazement that lasts until they reach that man's uncle's expected space of living. There is only two minds – uncle is not. The man gently puts the pup on a big piece of solid rock and crushes the nearest window of the house in front of him. Then he proceeds with crushing the rest of the windows, which is followed by a devastating stomping of feet in the farm's garden of flowers. He also cuts down three of the most rare flowers that possess a great sentimental power over it's owner. Then he takes some rope and wraps it round the dog's neck. In three or four seconds of strangling, the existential unit of the man, which he has chosen to call his soul, is altered into a state that desires a more pleasant proof of his visit. He loosens the grip over the rope. Once he takes his leave, behind him on the porch of the wrecked household sleeps a charming little puppy with three of the most extraordinary flowers bound round its neck and before it lies a peace of paper that reads: „With love, from Man“.“
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