I want your book.
I want the pages so effortlessly written.
Day by day.
Week by week.
Hour by hour.
Minute by minute.
Second.
By.
Second.
Down to the last nanosecond, I want your book.

I desire your good times.
The times that brought you the most precious of joys.
The "wow-ing" moments that gave your life some sort of meaning beyond comparison to everyone else because it was unique to you and you alone.
The archive of your greatest achievements to which others looked up to you for guidance, in turn creating the perfect human model for the world.

I need your bad times.
The times that brought you to a point beyond sadness.
Those hectic moments that may have given you some sort of excitement but also took from you something you can never get back without therapy, a friend, or a warm coffee on a rainy day by your most foggiest of windows.
The ones that truly revealed a "you".

And most importantly, I crave your worst times.
Hell hath no fury likened to human frustration, solely birthed by human error.
A tantrum of the greatest quality, if you will.
The "they" that you've killed off, murdered in your mind for pleasure, just to see them writhe.
The world you've betrayed for its falsehood.
...The end you require to transgress countless new "beginnings"

A library, a bookshelf, a volume, a book, the chapter, a paragraph.
Down to the very last sentence or word, ended with a period.

Give. Me. Your. Book......