A room with no lights in that region became visible due to a nearby light from another region. A house where the night had crept in for the people. This one light centered at no center for all the people of the house. The unlit room had a bed which was given away due to it's shadow.
On the bed lay a man with his back to his ceiling. A pillow on which his head was supposed to rest had instead a notebook used for random rough work. The dim centered light guiding the unsteady hands of the writer. The randomness was magnificent when gaining knowledge that... he could not even observe what he wrote except for his way of writing or scribbling.
It could be called whatever the person writing or reading felt like. Be it from untidy to super clean, it was all relative. The buzzing of quite a few randomly unknown things intrigued him.
The randomness grew when it was understood that it were the last pages of the book but still the seek of randomness showed that the notebook was not even half full. The writer scribbled his way through lines of a page but then looking at it all relatively felt random. Even the word random appeared at random.
The words still were rhythmic in that they formed sentences to give new meanings. This new rhythm of writing felt different for the reader in that writer and still it was random which made the words abrupt or long.
The pages filled up but the notebook still had lots before it could come to a close. While the light formed the shadows, the aesthetic of writing randomly felt brilliant. Coming to a close the pen hesitated because of the arms which held it.
The writer's useless eyes making incomplete words which trailed with pauses. The ink still left, the writer slept only to wake up to his rhythm of randomness.
The light shone brighter as the other light of this room lit up. It was morning in the night.
© Aditya Subramanian, 2020
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