I wrote the Book of Pain.

A room with a desk, and not much more. A book sits on the desk. The title is faded and dull. The spine is creased and falling away. Sprawling letters on the inside cover, worn away with the years, barely legible. It hints at a name, a long forgotten person, a distant memory of a spirit. Does it start with an F or an S? Or maybe a J or a T. The story is printed in an uneven San Serif typescript. Each word echoes with the voice of thousands of sorrowful souls. The last page ends with a scream, a gut-wrenching cry from the heart. It wants to be read, to be cherished and bathed in the golden light of love. To be warmed by the hands of compassion, to be a part of a wholesome whole. But it stays alone, locked away in a room with a desk, and not much more.


S.