It is yet another day, really. Whether the day be filled with unpleasantries, or grief, the day is still a day. Gone in a mist, and sold to a beggar with a fee of naught to profit. I'm still tired, the night has been filled with many aches, and I woke up to the night sky by the cold, white walls of this academy. Silence, filled every hollow of this palace that groans and sighs with the burden of the day, when in the day, we are too occupied to hear. Emptiness, vastness felt rushed in the standstill of the morning. No man alive, no daughter asleep.

I could have sat there, and admired the cold and the dark, the very same that have caused brave men to shudder at unease, had I not remembered the existence of life. And I held my head low, and spoke to my Lord.

Finally, when nothing was around to take his place, I realised that nothing could.


I am certain, people in the norm to not think like I do. But fatigue has taken the best of me, and, my dearly beloved, I begin to think like a novel.