The question looms large, like a shadow from a high wall: where to store the pouch? Carrying it openly is a ridiculous idea, too noticeable to prying eyes. And then it hits me with simplicity bordering on genius: wrap it in an ordinary spice pouch. Who would guess that under the guise of a humble sack of cinnamon hides an entrance to my personal storage? Who would suspect in a handful of salt—a door to infinity?
You can't pierce it—damage the magical fabric that binds worlds. I'll have to make do with simple attachment methods: pouch in pouch, like a matryoshka, only functional. There's poetry in hiding the bottomless in the mundane, eternity in what fits in the palm.
Amusing: the solution to material concerns lies in the realm as earthly as ways to carry canvas bundles. After all the reflections on the philosophy of space, I have to think about how to inconspicuously carry a wonder with me. Life is a great master at reducing pathos to the ridiculous.
There's beauty in this too. The most exalted dreams must find embodiment in crude matter. Creating the pouch isn't just craft, but a journey where every step teaches understanding. Fabric, slime of magical creatures, metal, magic stone—all become parts of me, assembled into one whole.
What is born under my hands isn't just a convenient thing. It's a symbol of freedom from the world's shackles, a small victory over the laws of gravity and common sense. It's a mirror where my dreams and weaknesses are visible, my quiet rebellion against predestination.
For now, I have knowledge, plans, and two hours not wasted—perhaps they are worth all the books read before. In the stubbornness of creating something eternal lives a challenge to time, like flowers gathered from all fields of memory into one unfading bouquet.
The library greeted with silence that exists only where thoughts have settled as dust on shelves for centuries. The air is imbued not so much with the smell of old parchments as with the breath of others' discoveries and delusions. Plunging into the sea of chronicles, I felt curiosity itching inside—that which makes you seek answers to questions you don't yet know how to formulate.
Strange thing: the desire to understand others leads to understanding yourself. I sought information about distant peoples, as if hoping to find the key to my own soul in their calendars.
Time... What an amazing thing. For each being, it flows in its own way, obeying internal laws that our sages don't suspect. For us humans, a day lasts twelve hours, and each hour, like a generous merchant, dispenses a hundred minutes, and those—a hundred seconds each. The day turns out solid, as if the earth itself asks for a longer respite.