Day 132

We are all just stories, at the end of it all.

With books snapped shut behind casket covers.

This isn't metaphor. I have very little talent for metaphor.

There exists a growing library, began some time ago, in which the lives of every living person has been recorded in books.

Each book a person, each page a day in there life.

You live your life until the final page is filled out, at which point the bound cover is closed. With it, your mortality is realized.

One book, however, remains opened.
It has never closed in the history of the library, despite this book having had every page written and rewritten upon, numerous times.

Well, not every page.

Not the final page.

That page remains blank, as well as far and away from the libraries many shelves ...

It was taken by the book's owner. And she has been avoiding death for a very long time.

And she is not nearly tired enough yet, to give up on the chase.