If I were a book, my cover would probably be a plain dusty scarlet velvet. Scarlet because it’s my favorite color, velvet because it attracts dust fairly fast, dusty because.. well, most of the time, it just sits there. It might attract your eyes because of the loud color amongst the others in the bookcase, but upon retrieving it you’ll find out that it has a lock. First thing that comes into your mind is that it’s a diary. But no. A diary contains whatever you want to know on a face value. I won’t be that easy to read. A diary can be opened by one specific key. This book has no specific key on the other hand. Sadly, it can be opened by the sophisticated or the most simple key. It can be opened only if you really want to open it. Though once you do, it won’t be an easy read. It’s like solving a puzzle wherein you have to read between the lines so you can get the clues which are riddles. Alas, you find the book too hard or too boring, whichever suits your excuse, and you’ll put it back in the bookcase. Some would venture and try and pry to understand what lies within the context that might as well have been written by Shakespeare in old English, whichever the reason, I do not know. For stupidity and bravery are interchangeable most of the time. This scarlet velvet book could have easily been a hundred or two years old, but nobody knows. There is no author or title. For the book writes itself, and the title, well, the title was never important after all.