We are, all of as, as books. Stories that progress through time’s way. Our blood, stirred from our labours is the ink that stains the pages, which are the impressions we leave behind us. Pages, that are bound by twine made of our heartstrings. It is, however, to us to fill these pages lest they remain empty. Let their words be of experiences you’d not yet learned from heretofore, and the words you write still, of the lessons from which you would still desire to learn.
-L.J.D. Millar
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