She's an old leather-bound journal, her pages lined with gold. Her outside is holding up well, as it was created to pass the test of time. She's ensnared them in her trap of deceit, yet again. She tells stories much like the ones kept tucked inside of her, simply to protect. The interior, with gold-trimmed, faded pages, is slowly being eaten away by the moths that persist and chew away. They push on, never letting her be, forcing their way into her mind, past the guards she never lets down. They trespass her boundaries, destroying and conquering all that they stumble across. Her pages are fading, the storyline coming to an end. The plot is winding down, and the pen is running out of ink. An alacritous hand has flown over the pages, but now the aging diary is almost full. She's overloaded with other people's stories, and her binding is coming undone. She's pulling away from her outer shell - her soul wants to escape the restraining confines of this body. Her beauty is dissolving. Peace eludes her. Her flimsy papers rip out and flutter to the ground one by one. She's leaving, slowly.