Pieces of paper, roughly cut from an all but worthless book, spiral to the floor as the force of the knife ejects them from what once was their home.

Each of us has an inner struggle, and the time has come to release some pressure, it seems. Not that this is completely to do with me. Maybe I’m the cause of some of it, but I’m not the whole of it. Either way, others’ emotions rub off on me. And deep inside me, a personality I dislike stirs, and I shake.

A personality that fiction demanded that I name. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done so – after all, names give things power…

It’s not over yet. It’s not over…

Why did I think that it would be? When will it be?