[ This book is getting old. ]

This book is getting old.
He sits alone.

Another cigarette in his mouth, and worn-down.

Memories become blurred as time passes.

Aglow is his inspidation, but it burns, tunes out and fades to black.

Adventurous demons act as penance in the abyss of sleep.

The book reaches mid-point, and the fabric of reality and dreams cracks, and seperates.

Into hell the protagonist ventures, never moving.
His sins are revealed.
Punished.

He defeats the antagonist, but he is scarred.
His conquer was yet defeat, for he still carries the Burden.

So at the craggy plateu, he sits.
Watches, and covets not his purgatory, but that of both exetremes.

Reflects.

He judges himself and refrains from judging other spirits who pass by.

Reflecting, he ages in tormented peace.

Pages crumbling, the book is near its end.

Still, he reflects. His hands reach beyond his armor to mend the soul.

But the last few pages are blank, and the content must continue.

In blank pages, history is written.