When I was a kid, I used to be keen to explore the attic of my house. The attic was filled with some kind of faint ancient, damp musty smell, which made it like an ancient treasure trove. Among piles of boxes, old papers, bowls, dishes, sedge mats, punky wood items, and tons of other miscellaneous material, sometimes I found rare, out-of-print One or Ten Vietnam Dong notes from late 80s early 90s. Some other times I picked up several Soviet literature books and old newspapers in brownish paper.
One day I saw a notebook, having no idea what it was about or to whom it belonged. It was thin and had thick covers with yellowish paper inside. I opened the cover: it was a journal. The handwriting was clear and neat. I read on.
Continue reading “Unfinished journal”