uncountable words.

Sitting on a banch, she was. She was in a good company. Around her, bookstores. Words were all around here, protecting and whispering. The sun was shining so bright, taking away the eyes which tried to look to that yellow glow. The clouds were drawing the sky. The buildings imposing for who is passing by. All people were a mistery. Each one of them had their own history, their own secrets, their own mistery. An old man sit by her side. Of course, both on the ends of each side of the seat. The gentleman had his white hair covered by a simple hat. He was holding a manuscript. There was no author name. He asked me what time was it. I confirmed there was 6:37 p.m. He had a mistery hidden inside of those deep eyes of his. Those eyes were paying attention to every move of each and every person who was walking by, with their own thoughts. He seemed like he was reading their minds, watching their fears, giving answers for their more diffult questions. He looked the girl writing. She was writing what she was thinking of her, her thoughts about misteries. It seemed, once more, that he was reading her eyes, her notebook, her notes. He was understanding her as nobody ever did. She felt it. He was with a bag, seemed like a bag that a lawyer would use. He took out a manuscript of that bag, the same one that he was holding. He wrote something on it's first page and then.. he left. She stood up and called him, said he forgot his book. He said he didn't. And then she read it. The first page, the second, the third, until the 346th. And she cried and loved those pages. There were so many comfortable, lovable and kind words written. And it is not a made up history, a poem, or a rumor. It is just the truth. The truth as it was never told.