every book has its own story to tell. but ours are way behind the bookshelf; untouched, unread, and all dusty. its rotten roots had crumpled and seizes to the temptation of dying. yet, here i am, trying to find the perfect ink to fill this pen. if i try other inks, our story would smudge and would turn out to be messy. i would still try to write even though there are smudges all the way. i still try to pave the perfect story that you and i would find it interesting. and trying for you does not matter. so here we are— untouched, unread, and all dusty.