A leather-bound work of art catches my eyes and convinces them to feast upon what it has to offer,
They gobble up each word, those gluttons, stuffing themselves,
Until they get full and dizzy to the point where I’m reading the same line, the same line, the same line, over and over again.
I fall into a trance and my mind begins to curiously wander.
My soul takes this atlas of all that has existed, exists, and will exist, and uses it as its play ground,
Jumping over the letters, sliding down the “J”s, weaving around the “S”s, jumping over the “O”s, and ducking under the “H”s.

I pick up this narrative of life and attempt to decipher the map of all that was, all that is, and all that will be.
For this novel tells a story of one and tells the story of a million,
And it is my mission to read every single word, to pause at every comma, and to flip every page.

I realize that out of all of the stories in this compilation of creations,
I am just one of them.
I am one sentence,
I am one word.