Books. The wonders of the world. The playgrounds for imagination, the sceneries of our dreams. But what makes a person so passionate about a leather-bound bundle of worn paper and lines of type? Is it perhaps the timelessness? Perhaps the endless mystery? Perhaps both the comfort of an old friends and the excitement of a new lover all seamlessly joined into one? Or maybe the friendship it brings in loneliness, or the love it brings in heartbreak. But most of all? It’s the escape it gives in captivity, the breath it provides in suffocation, the last hope it bestows upon a soul that has given up.