Right now I'm sitting at work. Kind of quite at the moment, save for the traffic on the street, but that's alright with me for a change. Every once and a while I like things being quite... Usually once or twice a year. I sit here, more thoughtful than I usually am, not for any reason in particular, but there again I'm not really sure... Here I'm surrounded by books from all the worlds authors. The smell of books is almost intoxicating and it's actually hard to focus. I think about everything that the books may be about and I find myself realizing that each one is a different worls with in our own... Here there are maybe a thousand different worlds at my fingertips all written by thier others divine imagination. I mean, when you think about it from this perspective you can relate on so many levels. After all, we ourselves are the product of divine imagination. Sometimes people ask, "So what's your story?" and maybe that's just what our lives are. Perhaps we are merely characters in some great novel. We are written down, developed and then everything about us is brought together and we live as the Author writes. Our journeys, our thoughts, everything we've ever experienced are all words on a page. This is actually somewhat comforting to me. What does the next page, the next chapter, the next book, what do they all hold for me? True, every story has to end, but once a person reads a story, it doesn't cease to exist. Anyone can pick up the story and start again. Each time we live again... For words never die. Maybe I'm being to thoughtful. Perhaps I'm going crazy, or it could just be that the musty scent of books has finally gotten to me. Either way, it does make you think. Eh, pay no mind to me, I'm mainly just rambling. That and I hadn't posted a journal for a while so this is what you got.