A/N: There wasn't supposed to be a second chapter of this, but after having a cold last weekend, and reading all of "To Kill a Mockingbird" and re-reading "A Berlin Autumn" I figured I might as well pick this up again.

I will be active on this site again soon, when I type up my newest story (It's a romantic tragi-comedy). (Or maybe I should just upload the revision of Raath...)

I am beginning to suspect that Conrad's name is not Conrad at all. I don't know what I suspect it to be, but it is certainly not as he said is is. He has taken up the habit of sleeping with his head on my stomach, which makes it very hard for me to sleep at all, seeing as how I do not sleep on my back all night.

Last night there was a woman who came into the store. She was short and fat, but had a pleasant face.

"Can I help you?" I asked, looking up from my work, "We're not an operating bookstore, you must realize..."

"Is Conrad here?"

I was taken aback, "Yes. Conrad! Conrad, there's someone here to see you?"

Conrad appeared, "Oh, Kost. How are you?" From here, they spoke in German. I was thankful that I had studied the language in the academy.

"Waiting for you to come back, Conrad, dear."

"You can keep waiting, Frauline Kost."

"If that's what you want. Is this man your new lover?"

"No."

The woman, Kost, resumed English and spoke to me, "May I buy a book? I know this is not a running bookstore, but I would like to help you."

"Certainly." I was more than happy to receive payment.

And since yesterday, Conrad has been moody and refused to speak to me. Only tonight does he talk again. "Kost was my employer," he says.

"What was your job?"

"It was nothing." And he refuses to say any more on the matter; although he does say he is tired and tries to make me lay down.

I tell him that I'm not tired, and decide to go for a walk. The streets are cold and lonely, save for the woman who stands on the corner of the Lady Windmire every night and calls out to me. "Tonight, England-man?" To which my answer is always "Not tonight."

It saddens me to know that she may do that for the rest of her life. Or at least until a rich man takes her up on the offer. The world is materialistic, and we are all it's materials.

I have the feeling that God is naught but a child, who creates so many toys that he doesn't know what to do with them all. He may play with them at times, create large and elaborate battles for the little tin men to engage in, but in the end, all the toys end up back in a corner.

If humans are so easily disposable, why are we born? It seems cruel for humans to know their fate so readily as four years of age. And for the terrible burden of knowing the ultimate future forever, no matter what form it will take upon itself.

I have returned to the bookstore. Conrad is peaceful when he sleeps. He looks younger than he his, but older than his appearance would let on. He is something of a double edged sword, I suppose, although I don't know quite how.

The woman, Kost, I believe he called her, was unnerving despite her beauty. Something about her set me on edge, made me nervous and frightened.

I do not sleep this night, although I am tired. I sit in front of another blank canvas and wish that I could think about art. God is all well and good, but too much of a distraction. But such is man! Man that longs to distract itself.

Man, so easily distractible, must have created God.

I must banish these thoughts from my head, I surely sound like a fool.