If life was literature, it'd be brimming with cut-off sentences of days unfulfilled. Blank pages would sit untouched, like alabaster promises. Future, past, and present would all lie out before our eyes in blood-red ink and written word. A twisting script, a tale vast, it's truths would scar the mind of anyone who dared view it's contents. But then again, could one single book contain it all? Surely not.

If life was literature, I wonder, what would my story say?