And as I closed the back cover of the book, holding the now worn-in binding in my hand, the world never seemed more out of balance. Scattered and broken, helpless and blatantly horrid. All thoughts of humanity made me want to spit or smack anything near by. I felt a surge of anger, burning passion to do something. Anything. How could this small piece of matter made simply of paper and ink cause such uproar of emotions? I do not know this character nor did I experience his anguish and pain, but I felt it. The words flooded my brain; my subconscious couldn’t help but travel and fight his battles with him. Each chapter shredding through and tearing apart every bit of what I once thought or never even began to think about before. Prying opening new horizons of the ugly barbaric, pure reality, of this unfortunate splendid world of ours.