I live in a book full of empty pages, br constantly searching for a writer. br Iv been all over the world, br stuck on shelves with other stories, br causing the shelf to be tighter and tighter. br I was jealous of the other books, br with their adventures and glory. br Till a lone writer saw me, br He freed me from the tight bookshelf, br cared for me and kept me for himself. br He was a writer, br and he said inside me, was a story. br He rote about himself, br and of the adventurers we had. br The feeling of the quill on my pages mad me smile. br I no longer was a sad empty book. br When the writer placed me back on the shelf, br the time i had endured without a story felt worthwhile. br The other stories couldn't help but look, br at how i stood tall and proud, br waiting for someone to read my new story.