September 13, 2008
Every day and every night, I found myself talking to my best friend. Who was this best friend, you may wonder. Well, his name was Larry. From what I can remember about him, he was tall and always had this boyish grin about him. He had dirty blond hair that was always unkempt and blue eyes that never held anything but happiness. In terms of age, he was only two years older that me at nineteen, and yet, he acted as if he was a ten-year-old boy. Whether it was comical or immature, I could never quite figure it out.
From day one, we were inseparable as it seemed, since – after the day we met - the two of us were always together, but even still, no mater how close we were, there was still much to learn about him. When we sat down together in each other’s company (whenever or wherever was convenient enough), I found myself listening to him as he talked on an on about his life.

I distinctly remember one stormy night when the two of us were confined to staying indoors. At first, silence reigned between us as we listened to the intense and distinct “pitter-patter” of the rain against the roof. Minutes later, I found myself listening to his eager voice recanting the earlier days of his youth. As I listened to his tales, I found my eyes closing, letting his voice penetrate my brain, vivid images from his story dominating my inner vision as my imagination went wild with his words. That night, as the sky let out its anger upon the earth below it, the two of us roared with laughter at his memory.

If one really thought about it, it was quite odd that Larry did all the talking while I just sat around and listened. Larry didn’t mind, though, in fact, he seemed to enjoy just running his mouth off. To this, it makes me recall one of the many dreams he had told me about. It involved him and a giant pickle. For you see, Larry loved his pickles. In this dream of his, he and the pickle were all there where, until he devoured the giant pickle. Then it was just Larry. He had said he had been upset for months because, well, he loved pickles. I laughed so hard that night, my sides became cramped and tears traveled rivers down my cheeks.

Those were the jolly times of my friendship with Larry. As always, there are bitter times to these joyous ones. There were days and nights alike that I chose to stay away from Larry. I was – quite frankly – never in the mood to listen to him speak and blabber on for hours and hours on end. Then there were the times that Larry used words I had never heard of, causing me to become frustrated with him as I pulled out my dictionary to look up said words. But in the end, we would always laugh about it and continue on.

It was from those instances that, I found myself becoming fascinated with knowing everything about Larry. It was like an addiction! Most of all, his stories and dreams were what plagued my mind the most. Whenever he spoke, I always found myself drowning within his words. The way he described the events that had occurred… it was always made me feel as if I had been there myself to witness whatever had happened. The way Larry spoke was in a very descriptive manner, allowing my brain to plague my inner vision in what Larry had already once seen and experienced before. As he relayed his experiences with me (or his life for that matter), I found myself becoming truly immersed within his world. Whatever he had felt that day, or in that dream, I experienced that same feeling right there on the spot, whether it be joy or sorrow. It was a bond that was unique in one sense, though this bond had been shared with other people before Larry had come along. The number was great, too great to even count and too many names to spell out onto paper.

Then it happened that on one fateful day, after weeks of spending time together, I never saw hide or hair of Larry again. I never heard his voice as he told me of his life, or was given the chance to allow my wild imagination to concoct the images his words produced. At that moment, I became afraid that all Larry had told me, I would forget. Would all the memories I shared with him go away? What if I ended up forgetting the words he spoke and the images that went along with them? I cringed at the thought. Sad I was, but all good things must come to an end.

With a bitter growl, I sat down on the steps of the accursed building behind me in a childish manner, crossing my arms across my chest as I stewed within my own wrath. At that very moment in time, I was quite hostile towards the people that worked in that very building. Then again, they were the ones that introduced me to Larry in the first place. Ugh, sometimes, I really hate the library. Oh well, there are thousands upon thousands of other books waiting to be opened, and just as many new people who are dying to talk to me and get to know me.

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