My night is quick once sleep arrives,
     I dream not once at all.
Though part of me would wish I had,
     the very nerve, the gall.
I know his aim is noble,
     to furnish us with fractions.
That later fit together,
     and explain Yolanda's actions.

My eyes doth open slowly,
     and haze is blinked away.
And rising quick to sitting stance,
     our quarters I survey.
She isn't here, surprised I'm not,
     I expected she would leave.
Until my foot regains its strength,
     I'll stay, with rest I'll cleave.

I stand and see the table,
     with note and loaf adorned.
Mayhap her writings fill the gap,
     Mayhap they leave me scorned.
Yet there on paper, perfect script,
     her name with confidence.
A rhyme just like the other,
     leaves my feelings in suspense.

"Time to eat, wash those feet,
     the smell is rather strong.
We need supplies, surprise surprise!
     I won't be gone too long.
If you get bored, avoid the hoard,
     I've left a healthy stack.
One or two, will surely do,
     and last till I get back"

On the floor beneath the table,
     just as she proclaims,
A stack of books stands resolute,
     with spines declaring names.
I see two books on history,
     another sounds like fiction.
She tries to mask abandonment,
     her blatant dereliction.

I pick the first up of the stack,
     my fingers stroke the spine.
I remember fuzzy history,
     but I scarce could say what's mine.
World war is something notable,
     that seems like nothing strange.
For any conflict scale enough,
     is bound to promise change.

The cover bound in cloth is dark
     in colour, not in hue.
And once again I find myself,
     evaluating blue.
I hold it up to sky above,
     in order to compare.
Alas the contrast overwhelms,
     and at black and white I stare.

"Gulliver's Travels" aloud I speak,
     the name is known at least.
Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace,
     I shan't attempt that beast.
And then another catches me,
     "The Farmers Indignation"
Nestled tight on top a tome,
     on London's conflagration.

Each volume here is most pristine,
     I find it quite alarming.
Considering the elements,
     oft render things uncharming.
I leave the stack she left for me,
     and venture to the towers.
They call to me in whispers,
     as they bloom like summer flowers.

Some lay there open, pages roused,
     by gently tugging air.
Exposing all their secrets,
     lain with bodies bare.
Others more keep to themselves,
     closed off, stoic, cold.
Protecting what's inside with,
     coloured shields purveyors hold.

I find a volume randomly,
     with title most bizarre.
Algorithmic Computations,
     next to How to Play Guitar.
The cover sports a spell of sorts,
     words with ethereal glow.
Indentations marking groups of chants,
     and so the symbols flow.

I spend the morning musing,
     whilst Yolanda stays away.
I tell the time with sun-rays cast,
     the graveyard's telling sway.
Though nothing here is ancient,
     no writings on papyrus.
The topic I'm most searching for,
     concerns that wretched virus.

At first I find a trifle odd,
     no books describe the fall.
No journals, recollections,
     no diaries, none at all.
But titles glimpsed from here and there,
     foretell with future warning.
Of slave like machinations,
     over which the world was fawning.

Technology became their God,
     and speed their rugged Prince.
Literature of paper hasn't
     surfaced here since.
They worshipped many freedoms,
     free from judgement, free from rules.
They changed their very morals,
     and abolished all the schools.

Parents chose to educate,
     their brats with biased schemes.
Control became a crutch for all,
     unstitching nation's seams.
Loquacious to a fault, one states,
     a generation mumbles,
A stream of banal ramblings,
     the commentary rumbles.

The text before me speaks of,
     giant lumbering machines.
Manikin like humans,
     the very things of horrid dreams.
They tried to give them consciousness,
     the pursuit was pushed for years.
Yet in the end, their growing trend,
     became their darkest fears.

Logical enslavement,
     questionless decisions.
Humanity laments at what became
     of false ambitions.
If knowledge be the answer,
     then morality the key.
The former void of latter,
     breeds a great catastrophe.

I close the books, I've read enough,
     they always end the same.
Humans playing God,
     as if their lives were just a game.
This much I remember,
     that our race as such aspires.
To rise above all feats before,
     no care what it requires.

My memory is like a veil,
     I'm peering through a shade.
The light and colours dance like waves,
     on shores amnesia made.
Yet my name I can remember now,
     Xavier for sure.
The label feels so fitting,
     and so now I'll search for more.

Yolanda is my only key,
     her name began my quest.
I'll search until I find the truth,
     and then my soul can rest.
I'll have to trust her stories,
     for I have no other source.
That girl one minute soft and sweet,
     the next is crude and coarse.

I want to understand her,
     but feel I'm so alone.
I need to find my memories,
     memories of my own.
I push my mind but all I see,
     is painted with a sponge.
The veil once more precludes my thoughts,
     though through it I must plunge.

I scoff the bread, it feeds me well,
     in strength my body grows.
When she returns I'll ask her,
     to explain her manner rose.
Decision made I take my stance,
     it's time I took control.
And then I see the quail eggs,
     so neatly in the bowl.

I recognise them instantly,
     though why I cannot say.
From where did she collect them,
     why leave them on display?
Are they for me to cook?
     Though I should hope that much is true.
But contemplate restraint,
     because I'm lost for what to do.