"I'm looking for a way out," a scream cries out filled with heart-wrenching madness deep from within. Someone's going insane, but I'm not sure who. Could it be me? Listening to the cries these walls pitch at nobody in particular. Could it be my wife? Talking to these empty slabs of builder-beige Sheetrock? Or could it be this society, forming mountains upon mountains of brigades over a single book as to bury the knowledge hidden within. The common object: A book. Treated like a leper, avoided like a lion, and hunted like a tiger. In a perfect world, they're hunter, no rather picked like a flower, treated like a woman and not avoided, but appreciated.