He was reading, again. It was not all he did but mostly what he did; in fiction or non, he could always find the escape he needed to keep living. His stacks of books reached to the top of his ceiling, some were big, and others small but at the end of the day he could not have cared less; they were books which was perfection by his standards.
In the background Eels was playing; losing streak, not the usual sort of song he desired to hear, but he was feeling slightly less sinister and glum today though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
The study in which he was concealed was of a cramped, circular shape that allowed just about the right amount of light into it. He himself could be found seated on a waist high pile of books, mainly encyclopaedias. It was ridiculously comfortable and not a single book in the pile had in fact been damaged by his choice of settle, even though he had been doing this for yeas. The aroma was of coffee and honey which wafting gently from the kitchen from where he did little cooking.
It was not the best of flats but it was of good enough condition, considering the state of the actual city, he truly believed that he had done quite well.
His eyes gloomed over the text before him; George Madden, an essay writer from Doncaster who wrote and published his first piece in 2021. It had been a wonderful, yet baffling and adverse truth about him being a socialist in England. He had discussed the riots of Lewisham and Brixton and the effect that it had had on the conservative government of the time. He wrote with every pore of his body, driving the reader to empathise where necessary and to feel fearful of the future, which he had been right about, the collapse of parliament, the revolution and of course the immense destruction of the city of London itself.
Theo enjoyed it there, never would he change from this way of life; it was too satisfying, and besides, there was the new plague floating about, he was much safer in his paradise.
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