He held the leather bound book. The sun glistened off the front, detailing its worn cover. He hated this book. It had served him well. Detailing all of his adventures. It would kill him to lose it. It would destroy and tear his soul apart if one day it fell into the wrong hands. The hands of a lover, the hands of an enemy or even worse, and his own soul mended hands. A tear escaped from his eyes. It rolled right down on the front title. “My Adventure.” That’s what he called his life, his work, his designs. His adventures, his escape from reality, his afternoon in a world where nothing mattered but his own personal creations. He flipped the book open, the edge of the pages were yellow from the coffee that was spilled on them. He used and abused this book. He couldn’t take it anymore. This tool was old. It was worn out. It held his soul. He bent forwards, smelling the old pigments of paper. It felt eerily real. The words, how they were written, how the pen dug deeper into the paper by the weight of the word. He slid his hand on the opposite side of the book. He took a deep breath and pulled, gripping as hard as he could. He went on a rampage, his breath quickened, he only saw darkness, while pages were being torn. All that was left was the title, “My Adventure”. He cried.