AUTHOR'S NOTE:
This short paragraph was just a fun bit of writing I decided to create. No true point, just a soul-enriching task.
Oh, what a pleasure it was to reach through books. That icy cover inviting her ravenous mind, pleading desperately, silently, for some sort of rescue from this torrent of madness they called life. Such flourishing purity had to be tucked away in those tender leaves; were they tender? A knock sent a delicate and painful punch to her ears, tempting her every nerve to rip open that loose, mangled cardboard, or was it plastic? Slap—the cover hit the desk, resulting from her violent movement, finally slamming the door on all that boiling fur, that happiness submerged in ignorance, and as she impatiently tore through those first introductory pages, she created universes full of the possible scenarios; they were all true, every single one alive, beating, waiting for her next turn. How could such vibrant spindles be kept in such a cold bound? She jumped back in fear, praying, yearning for preservation, hating the queued genocide of all those futures. Why would an author ever put introductory pages in a book, she wondered? Of all the sins and moral potholes she had ever stumbled over or seen unfortunates fall into, never had she considered the worst of all: forced patience. She slammed the book shut, toes at the water's edge, and sunk into her chair; what a demonic thing to do, she said; what a demonic thing to do.