There is a chair. It is a tall chair. It exists in the kitchen. A man often sits on that chair. But it is not his chair. It is only his chair when it is in his place, as it is her chair, when it is at her place.
From his place, he writes his story. His story is a factual one, a remembering one, a teaching one. His feet don’t touch the ground, and so, as he writes, the chair suspends him in eternity.
From her place, she writes her story. Her story is an enduring one, a remembering one, a teaching one. “She writes in white ink.” Time itself stops and races when she sits on that chair, writing her story.
They write on opposite sides of the same page. Sometimes, the ink bleeds through the paper, leaving splotches on the other side. Sometimes, entire words become illegible. Often, however, words are only partially changed: “defy” becomes “deify”. But that doesn’t matter; no one remembers his story, no one reads hers.
As each page becomes filled, they are placed in an ornate box in the middle of the table. There is no need to number the pages because one must first be complete, and placed within the box, before another is begun. The box fills as he and she continue their stories.
One day, as a mover was lifting the chair, a leg hit the side of the box. The box went tumbling open, hitting the ground and scattering the pages across the floor.
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