Fin.

And so, tonight is the night. I closed the book.
I feel as though the pages stick to my fingers, and instead of closing it neatly, I'm only ruining the pages, crumpling and tearing them, and in return they're giving my fingers cuts, deep, sore cuts.
I wish I could let go of this book easily, I wish my fingers weren't so stitched to the insides, but there's nothing I can do. I just know I'm beginning to question the stitches, the pages and my fingers.

In the end we are all characters in one of billions of books, published, from the moment the first ten words are entered, until the final two.
What will this all matter, at the end of my life? When im dead and gone? Who will read my books?
Thoughts like these are making me very nostalgic, it's not a nostalgia of things passed, its more of a nostalgia of things passed and what they will become...

Where does it all go when the mind goes?
I wonder if the many protagonists will remember the chapters in our books... I wonder if the pages will open for them when they remember their favourite chapters...

Books..