It was a Wednesday, the most uninteresting of days. You had decided to go out for a walk to the local downtown thrift store. It was hot like the womb, and you needed something to do. When a arrived you see a bin, "ten cent books" it reads. Looking in it you are immediately drawn to the newest hardback book in the bin. It seems to be an autobiography. "You wouldn't want that," the cashier says, "no one seems to understand it." You are intrigued as to why. The page turns to 127 and you see something unexpected. Letters so far apart and strung together in the absent white sheet. You wonder if this is some kind of abstract/alt literature garbage those younger are into these days. Turning back over to the cover you see clearly, "myself and no one else" written in a child like sprawl. The authors name is simply bannered across the bottom in the same fashion. The book is dark blue and heavy- even though it looks the opposite. You are drawn into this book immediately, throw ten cents on the counter- and leave. Scanning pages on the way home, interpreting and decoding, like it was your first Nancy Drew novel all over again. The book whispers to you it's secrets. By the time you have arrived at your home you seem to begin to understand, yet you begin to deconstruct. Beyond page 127 was page 128 and page 129, and on and on they went. No real content or words were written, only ideas. The mystery of page 127 and all the other 127s had not seem to unfold itself to you. Maybe beginning at page one would help, you say as you flip again to the cover page. The book exhaled into you as the pages creaked. The first pages only had pictures of the universe and galaxies in black and white. This continued for many pages and stopped when the spaces began. the words began to unfold as you read closely, a few read "ideas" by page 80. There were a few key words, "universe" "idea" "self" "myself" "womb" "embryo." You felt a silent agreement with the book. Could one simply sum up their life into a few measly pages? People do not even develop a sense of self until they are a few months old. Time is but a concept, people think it moves so quickly because they simply become accustomed to it. As they develop and grow this becomes apparent, "life is short," but that is never the case. People start out as ideas, is that when the concept of life starts? You are not alive but you are living as an idea. This is as  opposed to conception as a beginning point. Or is it that you are always simply living, because matter cannot be created nor destroyed. You were simply rearranged to create a breathing body. The author and many authors were forever existing, their page 127 was all the same. Ideas within a universe. Ideas within an omnivores. Ever expanding. Their stories never end, because people will simply rearrange and expand as something new. The book had caused you to think, maybe it was all pretentious nonsense- or maybe something else. Suddenly it was midnight. You were so enthralled and intrigued by the half empty pages time had beaten you in it's own game. You placed the book down and decided to simply think about it later.  Because there is always more time.