Wizrares

 There he stood in the shadow of the inn, watching but not being watched. He was there for an hour, two, or more. Who knows, even he didn’t know. He only knew that he had a purpose for being there: he was waiting for Orwell. Why was he waiting for Orwell? Who was Orwell? Questions with vague answers, that might have been false, but this was his only chance to find out who he was, so he was the one to look for. How did he know that Orwell was the one he was looking for? It was the name on the letter he had found on the desk when he woke up. A yellow letter, aged by the time it went pass it while laying there: “My dear Allllllllll [

Iarta strainul, Om al carui strai Abia ieri l-ai vazut, Neatins de vreme, de mare. Abia ieri a aflat adevarul Etern si nemarginit despre Stramta lume in care Toti traim un graunte de nisip Intr-o mare de timp. Calauzit de Ei a vrut, A incercat sa fie El. Uneori El a fost Altcineva Niciodata nu a fost El Murind a reusit sa descopere Adevarul despre Noi: exista Altii ca Noi. Razi, iarta.