It was a hopeless summer afternoon and I lay jaded beneath the wise sycamore’s shade, awaiting the day’s end. Unfortunately, it was only two-thirty and the sun refused to set early. I continued to wait. I examined the peaceful clouds carelessly drifting above and wished for a moment to be a cloud and rise above the afternoon’s boredom. I awoke from my daydreams and trudged upstairs to my grandmother’s attic, searching to occupy my mind. In the attic were several faded family portraits. A faint sunshine peered through the window, revealing a thin blanket of dust resting on each portrait. Beside the pictures was a large pile of bulky books. Hesitantly, I extended my arm, grabbed a book and began to read, swiftly consuming each word of the novel. I read the last few sentences of the book, savoring each word and looked out the window. It was now dark outside.