finishing a book

there were some whispering and apprehensive regrouping. you pace back and forth like this, ignoring the reality of the scene, or pretending that you were able to withstand the monstrosity of reason. you might have considered it beautiful, this ornament in that curious setting, that phrase which placed the character in a perfect outline - but you were missing it. this beast that was trying to approach you so as to admire you. the first question was: does beauty and irrationality always have to reign alternately? the second question was: who is this stranger that has agreed to my company? there must have been a third question too, but lights slowly came up again, it drew the streets and then the vague outlines of christmas decorations still strung across balconies, along the facade of department stores. and the wildness of ending dropped like an avalanche, falling and falling,