I'm reading Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, it's contents so mirrors my own that is disheartens me to open the paper back to continue where I had last left to grieve in nostalgia. Only half way and this wretched book has left me with a shatter of exclamations and bad memories, a glue to which will permanently attach my disdain.
Emily Bronte writes so well, tragic that she only wrote this one book.