At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in it's own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky.

Despite the horror, we survivors were endowed with a will to survive. Or instinct. Or maybe it was faith.

In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.

Horror it has it's own strange stuff... brutal stuff and it's difficult understanding!?

I'm not the protagonist of a novel or anything...I'm just a normal college student who likes to read...But...If I were to write a book with me as tge main character...It would be......A tragedy.

Even if it's a life in shackles, if you have somebody who accepts you for what you really are, how reassuring would that be?