Some books can never be written. They can only be lived. For time, time beyond our knowledge of time, the story will be told and retold about the book which lived and as such is relived – or at least attempted – by those who with deep desperation desire to be part of that story, that history, a character inside that book which lived so long ago and though no longer present, lives on through their hearts, which in turn beat on the rhythm of the words, the breath of that book, creating new words, new meaning, new life, a procreation. Written in heart beats, the book is lived. Lived only to be sacrificed. Sacrificed only to be reincarnated into the soul of the reader.


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