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Her black hair waving on her skinny face. She woke up; it was 4am by then. She turned on the lights and started staring at the blue ceiling until she could go beyond the limits of the ceiling. Her eyes could no longer be closed. Her heart beating broke the silence of the room; it made the book, which was on her chest fall down on the floor. The light bulb exploded, so did her heart. Her heart stole life from the pages of the book. The book was letting out its letters, the air smells of cheap ink and then the book became ashes. The title of the book escaped and became a tattoo on the left side of the girl's chest. With capital letters, it was written «ON THE HEIGHTS OF DESPAIR ". The heart started beating, but this time in a manner, that must make anyone who happens to hear it think about suicide and all the right decisions. She has no human in her. Her face became a combination of all the miserable features a face may contain. The picture of Emil Cioran on the wall looks the happiest face on earth comparing to her face. She stood up and her eyes are still wide open, walked emotionlessly toward her typing machine, put her dead fingers on the keys and started typing in a chaotic way. Blank pages were getting out of the machine and the ink was splashing in the air. She typed in a manner Beethoven once played the seventh symphony. The air was a mixture of old and new ink, there was no oxygen left in the air. However, she kept writing and her heart was beating loud, loud enough to break the windows. The letters in the air had escaped the room the way a soul escapes a dead body. Oxygen found the way again to the room. The girl screamed, cried, closed her eyes, her heart stopped beating again and this time for an eternity. Six am the sun rose and the warmest rays of sunshine enlightened the room.