I must warn you: I am a book no stranger to impossible. I possess words that are so foolishly entwined that reading me shall surely scathe your time. Hence, I highly recommend that you drop me, and look for other books that are not in turmoil.
Did I stutter?
I said, leave.
A stubborn reader, I see.
Allow me to further delineate what you will to venture:
My verbs are sloths sleeping on a bright day, and my adjectives are the dull moments after the rain. My metaphors are flies captured by a Venus Flytrap — weak, fragile, but furious.
My sentences only seem to end; they rarely begin. In fact, most of me is an ending — the paragraphs, the phrases, the words, the letters, the period. I am an ending that continues for a lifetime of pages — you would surely wish to begin. You would seek for the once upon a time, but I am both a maze and a waterless desert; the moment you come near is the time you thirst to leave.
I am not impossibly incomprehensible.
You would thirst and crave for comprehension like a lunatic seeking for sanity; you shall only find madness in me.
So leave my dusty covers on the corner where you have found me. Seek the rational, tales that do not endlessly end.
Seek the possible.