I am tired, of the world and everything about it. The force that I deliberately exert in order to resist the shattering forces of life has exhausted. I’ve run out of energy to live, to fight, to survive. But more than that energy, I’ve also run out of tears, of emotion, and of passion and the only thing that holds me together is literature. I dread the day when this extremely miserable world would run out of books, or when I have read all of them, or when the last inkwell breaks and could no longer hold magic. Upon that day, horror shall fall as I instantly elude from sanity in order to embrace the lesser oppressive miasma of pure imaginings. There is no better refuge than literature.