Photo: Mahatma Putra 's Personal Archive The room was black, as black as his past. He sat there alone, in his black Victorian-chair, accompanied only by his books. He had no friends, for he thought there were no one he could speak to, he thought everyone else was dumb and that if he socialize with them, it could lead him away to reach enlightenment. So he locked himself in his black painted office, where he could spoke and listened to Heidegger and Machiavelli -some of his few imaginary friends. They told him -and he believed- that when he had enlightened, his black-painted office would transform itself into a brilliant white box. When someone was too lonely, sometimes there was a voice that one couldn’t differ whether it was real or not. He had been a director in Mayhem-Factory for almost a thousand years. This job was no different than any other job; it had its ups and downs, and maybe this time, right now was the most-down side his job. He mourned a lot, for everything ar...
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