I was walking today, in the library, a big library; all around me were shelves filled with authors words and stories and loves. 

Then I got to thinking; in each book, sandwiched between two cardboard sheets is something so beautiful and so unique, something so seperate from everything.

I picked up a book, and I sat in a complimentary chair, surrounded by people of who I had no understanding of, and read. It was something about which I had no idea, no clue apart from the words ‘May we be forgiven’ to coax me into reading. I read until it was time to leave, to abandon so many works of art I have yet to encounter. 

This book, was so sad. It was a subtle sad, though. The people in it had been beaten and were being cheated on. The beautiful thing about it though, was in the way it was written; AM Holmes jumped straight into the story, with no hestitation, with no warning, in the exact way this would have happened- you don’t hesitate before your life is ruined, you don’t get a say. 

The wonderful thing about this was that Holmes had made it so sad, with every word something more terrible happened, but the narrator had no idea how tragic it was, it was all expected, routine. I read and I winced, it wasn’t explained, it just sat, the words staring at me from the page, daring me to read on. 

I only got to page 22.

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