I keep finding that the chair is oddly turned, why is it I wonder? Oh that's right, it's is because its back is turned to me, silly, foolish me; why would I care which side of a chair is facing me? It's not like it has any meaning to, that it's meant to, it's just in the position it was left from the last person that sat on it.

Well that quite the ice breaker for another idea, who was the last one sitting in that chair? Was it a man? Was it a woman? What age was he or she? What made that person to sit in there? Was it because social common sense dictated it? Was it because of tiredness? If so, what kind of tiredness? Was it emotional? Was it physical? How late in the day or night does someone feel the need to get a seat and forget everything with a relief from our weight and the weight of the world on our shoulders? DO I feel the need to do so? No, no I don't, this chair is too interesting, so complex, for me to be tired: Its mere existence is an euphemism of pragmatism and every ounce of my being is focused on that simply stereotypical chair. Oh almighty, oh timeless chair, I shall never move you from your place, you shall be preserved and I shall be your monk I shall be your prophet, I pledge my allegiance for thee and soon, proses of your glory will be written just as promptly as I finish my verses to those walls of that beautiful unreadable shade of pure white, of that height just fit for me, of that smooth surface that maintain this impious world out of my sight…

I can hear seas away voices of amusement, even when my chamber is soundproof.

-He's been staring at that chair for a week, without eating or sleeping, was it too much?

-His excitable imagination wouldn't tolerate anymore, if we take that thing away now his mind will start growing ill.

-Isn't it an irony? Get mad in a madhouse, pffft. Let's get ourselves a drink.