I wrote a book. We wrote a book.
It will never be published and it will never be read.
It is over 12 thousand messages long.
It spans over almost a year.
Its plot is sometimes repetitive but never dull.
It could be a book on human nature.
It expresses and explores the extremes of emotion and their effects.
It could be a book on love.
It is fast-paced, short-lived, ever-lasting.
It could be a book on regret.
An end in the distance, the silence, the unease of a shift in dynamics and in intention.
It could be a book on ambition.
The potential and arrogantly realistic expectation for the future, the appreciation and shaky invincibility of the present.
It could be a book on blame.
Ourselves and each other, in equal parts.
It could be a book on truth.
Personal, unchanging, stubborn and often assumed truths.
It could be a book on fear.
The fear of happiness, of consequence, of disappointing, of the unknown.
It could be a book on realisation.
The bar has been raised, the standard has been set.
It could be a book on instinct.
To push, pull, laugh, cry, accuse, assume, believe.
It is a book on everything, anything, always and forever.