The words from a torn page rose up to assail his mind. The disordered sentences torn from memory. And he screamed. I call to you, Adonai; to Adonai I plead for mercy: “What advantage is there in my death, in my going down to the pit? Can the dust praise you? Can it proclaim your truth? Hear me, Adonai, and show me your favor! Adonai, be my helper!”
Suddenly Jeremy regained feeling in his body. The taste of alcohol and prescription pills reappeared on his tongue, and he felt nauseous.
Feeling his throat open to eject the poison, he called her name: “Victoria!”
And a hand squeezed his.
THANKS
To write is to be alone, inhabited by many people. But as soon as the text is finished, the future opens up to other people—the ones in real life. Those who prove willing to support you, advise you, encourage you, and help you live a few moments of life worthy of the most beautiful novel.
To thank the ones who first inspired me with their stories, I gave them a role in my texts. To thank my loved ones for surrounding me, I have only this page.
In order of appearance in my adventure:
No amount of water can quench love, torrents cannot drown it.
—Song of Solomon