For the rest of the night the boy lay unmoving on top of his duvet flicking from page to page, engrossed in every single word and never once wanted to lift his head.
When he got to the end, he set the pages down in an empty drawer in the cheap wooden desk under his bedroom window. There it lay in silence working its magic. If an inanimate object could have emotion, those pages felt smug and satisfied. Satisfied by the boy just as Daryl had been, they sat and they waited for there was a great power contained within those pages. A power greater that any written word ever put down. More powerful even than the Bible, the Quran or any other religious or otherwise moving text. If the holy books of our world can make people believe so fully in something that they are willing to die for or ready to devote every waking second to something that is essentially nothing more than ink and reprocessed wood, then the power of these words are apt to rival the might of the gods themselves.