I grab the book and open as I should.
Big squiggly letters displayed for a title
Next page lies your list of metaphors
More pages turned and riddles, riddles, and more riddles.
I can’t understand any of this.
But that’s what you want…
For me to not understand any of this…
Right?
How can I really know if you do not say?
You’re a brilliant author who has forgotten to write…

With meaning…
With coherence…
With a purpose…
Or maybe that is your purpose…
Write meaning but not clear enough so people can read what’s on the surface,
But between the lines instead.
Yet how can I read between the lines when all I see is emptiness?
I want to read everything correctly and not make invalid predictions,
Even though you say my predictions are unnecessary
Am I that incoherent to understand the notes you leave in the margins for me?
Maybe it isn’t you who has forgotten how to write,
But I who has forgotten how to read.
Or maybe it’s perhaps both…
Maybe we both have lost our way of understanding this basic sense of communication…
Maybe you should leave more footnotes and I work on grasping each word.
I’m willing to read your brilliant literature of mystery.
I’ll search the dictionary of each word till it fits your content.
But are you ready to let someone read the Untold?