The storybook kept staring at him. All the way, from the other side of the apartment, sitting on the kitchen counter. No matter how much he tried, he could not get away from its look. He knew what would happen if he would open it. He feared he would be lost in the story forever. But still, he could not resist the itch to know the end of the tale. It was not as he was walking towards the book, but as it was the book that was slowly approaching him, like a UFO who would float soundlessly in the air, getting bigger and bigger in front of him, every moment. And it was in his hands. He opened the book, feeling his hands being slowly glued to the pages. He didn’t fear and started reading. It was midday on an island in the middle of the blue ocean. He could clearly imagine the island as he continued reading. The ocean was calm and the water cooled down his feet from the heat of the hot sand. He kept reading as he was walking barefoot at the edge of the water. The story built up as he kept walking and flipping pages. He next noticed a wooden raft on the beach. He got on the raft and glided into the ocean. A soft breeze caressed his skin. Slowly, his eyes got tired of reading and demanded a rest under the heavy sun. As he was lying down on the raft, he closed the storybook and put it aside, looked deep into the blue sky, having nothing else on his mind than the sound of water hitting the sides of raft and the warmth of sunrays pouring on his body. As the waves gently rocked his raft up and down, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
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