Today I bury a novel I attempted to write named 'Reruns of Agony'. Its world won't ever make the shelves because the values it was based on doesn't resonate with me anymore. There's no one who will mourn it beside me either so its not much of a loss. It makes me wonder how many stories are there that never made it. I sympathise with all the storytellers unable to tell the story that exists within their mind, a story they visit every night before they sleep. Maybe the story didn't need us to tell it, maybe we needed the story to keep us fulfilled.
