Non-fiction or nonfiction is an account, narrative, memoir, representation, and many other types of a subject which an author presents as fact.
*Prose - Written story. *Nonfiction - Story that is factual.
Please, do not post any other types of literature to this folder.
Frozen Rider by Happyhedonic, literature
Literature
Frozen Rider
I used to like to travel, I still do but not as much. When I was younger I would often take off for weeks at a time usually with very little money. I remember one cold journey from Amarillo to Albuquerque. It was a part of a cross-country motorcycle trip. It started to sleet and my back tire was sliding on every curve. It was also only about 35 degrees. Which feels like sub-zero riding a bike on the highway. My body was numb and my mind began to wander. I decided... I better call it quits for the day. Even though it was only about 300 miles between the two cities normally I tried for 600 miles a day. I took an exit into Albuquerque and pulled into some quiet-looking restaurant, in what looked like a lazy hamlet on the outskirts of town. I could barely get myself off the bike it felt like I was starting to go into shock. To this day I can’t feel the tips of three of my fingers. I could barely walk but somehow, I managed to get myself inside the heated restaurant. I felt
Cette prose est inutile. Ne la lisez pas. Ou lisez-la. Aucune différence. Ceux qui n’ont même plus la capacité de se fâcher, de se révolter n’ont plus d’âme. Ils ne leur reste même pas la conscience ou l’inconscience de la larve. Car la larve a la capacité de se mouvoir quand on la dérange, lorsqu’on la bouscule. Tous ses tortillements grotesques et risibles sont inutiles. Mais elle essaie quand même de faire quelque chose. Ceux qui n’ont plus la capacité de se fâcher, de se révolter n’ont pas la capacité d’être dérangés. Car être dérangé est une capacité: c’est refuser. Pour eux, lumière ou obscurité; aucune différence. Chaud ou froid; aucune différence. Rassasié ou affamé; aucune différence. Mais cette prose est inutile. Toute la poésie, toute la philosophie, tous les livres jamais écrits le sont en vain pour l’inconscient stoïque qui ne se retrouve pas encore au niveau de cette petite larve qui se tortille désespérément pour son existence quand on la dérange, lorsqu'on la menace.