Literature is a way to the human soul, some may find it a mere waste of time while some others use it as a remedy for their suffering or as an escape to keep their soul safe and sound in a world of purity; made out of the calmness of the sea on a moonlit summer night.

Rhapsodists filled the streets with their form of art, reminding everyone gathering around to remain human while war made a home of everyone's mind, rotting their souls along the way and stealing away their loved ones.

Who thought royalties were interested in such a thing? You were sitting in your usual seat as the young prince of Ithaca made himself comfortable right beside you, his hands solemnly on a book he brought along.

“Are you also interested in literature?” Telemachus asked, his tone soft and uncertain as his question lingered in the air amongst the verses of the nearby artist.

Art was born with mankind, and it will only die when we do – unless, of course, the number of those who dismiss it grows to cover the earth.