I just spent the past forty minutes crying silently, snottily into my pillow; drooling on my work light. Because of a book Mrs. DeHaven read to us in the fifth grade: a book that has haunted me ever since.

What possessed me to buy it, and then read it alone in the dark, I don't know. Possibly because it is amazing. Possibly because I am a masochist.

Possibly because the easiest way to feel is through fictional characters.

Regardless. The Bridge to Terabithia is a beautiful book.

ink :: graphite