Under normal circumstances, I would never ever write in a book I find in a library. But these aren't normal circumstances, and I suppose this isn't really a book. Did somebody once own this book? It was completely blank when I found it, just sitting in the shelf there. One ugly heck of a book, also, and I do have a certain fondness for these sort of things. The binding is nearly torn off and some of the pages are singed. I wonder if the previous owner had tried to burn it? I can't imagine why somebody would do that.
But I'm sure the person no longer wanted it.
I took the neglected little book and hid it in my bag when Panda wasn't looking. I'm not supposed to have a journal; after all, what could a nobody possibly write about? A nobody wasn't supposed to even exist. If the old coot were to find it, he would probably just throw it away and I'd have to get food on my own for a week. That's why I must take care when I write. I can't write too fast or my quill will make a scratching noise, and Panda will hear it, even in his sleep. I can't leave any evidence - not even the smallest splatter of ink - that I was writing. I even have to control my breathing, because I'm not supposed to be awake when Panda tells me to sleep.
And now I'm thinking, what could I possibly write about here?
I don't want to write impartial data; Panda makes me do that anyway. Not only that, but he makes me write them in English, which I find myself to be rather terrible in. But I have to learn it anyway. Bookmen need to be able to speak any and all languages, including our own. So far I can only speak Aramaic, Hebrew, Arabic, Portuguese, Spanish, and some Cantonese. Panda tells me how important English is, since a large portion of the world's literature is written in English, and it is also the most flexible language. I actually spend most of my day being taught different languages instead of speaking in the ones I know. He doesn't speak about much else, nothing casual. It's always a lecture or instruction for me to follow. It's terribly dull.
Come to think of it, Panda only talks to me in our own language, most of the time. Like the folks who use it, the language doesn't have a name. It's just the language of the Bookman Clan, and that's it. Nothing more and nothing less. And we are only able to speak it when there is nobody to hear it. What a pun.
…Panda is definitely going to murder me if he finds this.
I had better put this away for a while. I have a feeling Panda will wake soon, and if I'm not asleep, I'd better be cooking some breakfast, to put it in his words. Later.