I found love in my books. In characters crafted by the minds of geniuses. They opened up their hearts to me, allowing me to see their lives. And in time, they integrated into my life. I held them by my side, their universes carried inside of pages compiled. I found love in my books. I found adoration and bliss, I found loss and grief. I find love in my books when my heart painfully formed hands that reached out and latched onto the stories, grasping for every word they could. I found love in my books, and my heart swelled. I found love in my books, to the point where any normal heart would burst, but not mine. I found love in my books, and it became a craving and addiction. I found love in my books, and began to consume them in any way. I shot the words through my veins, swallowed them in capsules. I found love in my books, and every story became a high. I found love in my books, and it morphed to be all that mattered. I found love in my books, and now I have stories pumping and coursing through my veins. I found love in my books, and I will never stop fulfilling my lust.