H.

H. and his friends became acquainted in a very dark room whereby they couldn't see each other but through the smoke that punctured the stuffed air, it was at the end of a war in which many decent men and women had died... in fact they didn't die, they had been simply thrown to their deaths while H. and his friends keeps a certain sense of irony that made God laugh and whenever the angel of Death came by, he found himself slightly amused and a little helpless so that he would trade their deaths before their eyes which had become already blind at the time, thus whether the room was dark or not was no longer of importance.

After a good number of years H. and his friends remained in the very same room and the smoke made the air more difficult to inhale as time elapsed, they wouldn't dare to speak to each other because the angel of Death might come around and find them in a moment of seriousness and immediately throw them into the pit that a legend told was right in the middle of the room, whilst it was obvious in any case they couldn't see her coming but often it is told that fear doesn't need to be seen. They laughed hysterically and kept her aloof, as the air became thicker and thicker. Sometimes the hysterical laughter turned into tears as well because only the river laughed before those days and one had to imitate nature if he wanted to distinguish properly between right and wrong.

H. was a poet of little reknown and often went for a stroll along the tiny room just to sense the smell of the pit, and as he did all passing became of little relevance because the blindness became merely an object of sight, as though black could still be distinguished as a colour in a scale and balance of worldly objects. Because of his nervous and constant strolling his friends started to suspect that it was H. himself who melted the air with the smell of the pit and confused the hearkening voices of Death, but since it wasn't allowed to speak no one of them could complain therefore the routine of hysterical laughter continued routinarily. An older friend whose character wafted in between great goodness and public madness started thinking in terms of colours because H.'s poems couldn't contain any truth anymore and his colourfulness grew into doubt and anxiety and then his hysterical laughter was no longer real.

He felt constraint and occupied with murderous thoughts that couldn't harm anyone and felt an uncanny desire to speak his mind but because so many years had elapsed he could at most go on laughing in the same hysterical manner but in a nervous reflection that could hardly resemble truth, and he continued having this daydreams in which H. stole the air in his strolling around so that one day when he quit laughing altogether he pushed H. into the pit and asked his friend in a loud voice, "Where's the thief?", but suddenly he encountered no response and the thick silent air was replaced by the vicious seriousness of his friends.

Then the angel of Death came and took them all except the friend who pushed H. into the pit, and he remained alone in the room until the days couldn't be counted no more asking himself, "Where's the thief? Where's the thief?" and as no response came he laughed so hysterically once again that the angel of Death came to serve him companion but never dared to take him, because the thief hadn't yet been found and in his blindness he could hardly realize H. had fallen into the pit many twilights before.

Eventually even Death tired out and let him out of the room, but he couldn't find the door because he had only seen in colours.