My world is a book. The one where, on a trip to the library, you come across by accident, not intentionally, meaning to read. But once you pick it up, you quickly, but not too quickly, become engulfed in the pages; it becomes almost impossible to put down. Almost. As you begin to get deeper into the plot, the words becoming innate thoughts in your mind, the sentences connecting like the memories of childhood puzzles, piece by piece, plot by plot; until, embarrassed, you look around and shamefully close the book, leaving the ending untold, and the pieces scattered on the floor of your mind. As you walk away, retuning to reality, peeking over your shoulder, you can't help but wonder how I ends.