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[color=004b80][center][h3]University Library[/h3][/center][/color]

The ever present ticking of a clock added an atmospheric touch to the library's silence, otherwise drowned out by Winter's music. Though the vacancy offered comfort in its own way, the young author's attention would not linger upon his surroundings. Rather, his eyes soon found home upon the pages of his notebook, with thoughts constantly traveling back to the masterpiece just inches from his pen. Call of Cthulu, a story with enough mysticism to drown out even the world's of high fantasy. Hoplessness embroidered with fear, and alien atrocitets, one could never know what resided, or rather hid, behind each and every corner. Elusive and unknown, the vast monstrosities known as gods with names of an ancient tongue brings forth not only the darkness of an ocean's deepest depth, but also space itself. One of these creatures is said to have dreamed up the entierty of reality, and if it was to ever wake, we would cease to exist at the dawning of this beast's consciousness.

Of course, Winter could note that creatures of powers scaling this magnitude brought with them a genre in itself. Without proper ingredients, a writer would be left with naught but a mess. Power always had to be balanced by a plot, or a story. Quite fundamental rules of writing, for sure. Winter proceeded to gently tap his pen against the table, an absentminded habit while those raven eyes read through the pages knitting together a story known for the ages. 

Occasionally, the young author turned his attention towards the calm but moving world revolving around him. What was it like, frequenting a school as prestigious as this? Doctors, lawyers, architects and many more came through these halls before continuing to shape their future into that of which could very well save lives. In a way, it lowered Winter's gaze to the fictional landscape of Cthulu's mythos with a solemn expression donning his face. What would he achieve, in his lifetime? He ran away from his responsibilities, he ran away from his birthplace. Now a hidden recluse, shut off from the world, it was difficult to see himself moving past the myriad of restrictions put out in front of him, by none than Winter himself. 

They say that the most difficult realization is facing oneself, a foe bearing your face who gazes into your soul with eyes reflecting your own. Winter had not shied away from meeting the flaws donning him like a cloak, but claiming improvement since an age old past would be a step too far. Indeed, he had stopped cutting, even though the temptation was constant, and lingering. Even though the desire remained, even now. Though, one would not have to look beyond this addiction to understand the aspiring author's escape in worlds piercing the fabrics of reality. With a soft sigh escaping his lips, Winter leaned back in his chair, scanning the area for the briefest of moments, before turning up the music on his iPod. Music always knew how to drown out unwanted thoughts.