I love sitting here being held, knowing my pages are being put to good knowledge. I feel my pages being turned slowly minute by minute. My owner is absorbing every second of my treasured tale. My last page is turned; I slowly wait to be placed delicately on the warm bookshelf in which I came from. But instead I feel a sharp pain run through my binding, as I am slammed shut! Before I know it, I find myself soaring through the air. Thud, ouch, I hit the wall. My binding feels as though it may fall apart at any second. Darn these unhappy endings. I mean it really isn’t my fault, I didn’t choose the story. I am simply just a book, waiting to be read whether you interoperate the book as good or bad that is up to you.