The book which had once pitied humans for their boring lives now wished for their chance at a quick death. It wanted a fire to end the suffering. It was losing its words. The story didn’t make sense anymore, it only had bits and pieces. That was the curse of old age, not like its youth when many had turned its pages to know the story that outshone their boring lives. There was nothing it could do to bring the words back. It just had to wait for the rest to go, enough at least that it would cease to notice, cease to care.