It was as though, with every word Sanista typed, a tiny light inside him was flipped off. A most horrible feeling, no doubt, but he could not bring himself to stop typing the beautiful literature before him. It was consuming him, and he had every intention to let it.
When he reached his breaking point, when only his conciousness remained, he typed the final period to the first chapter. The sensation was like being thrust out of night and into day in a split second, leaving no time for thought, just reaction. All he could see was light. All he could feel was light. It was as if his flesh had somehow morphed itself into a photon form.
He found himself longing for some form of shelter from this overwhelming light.
Closing his eyes, he found he could see. He grappled for the book in his wastebasket, and at once was plunged into a war against light and dark. It was an endless sunset, filled with malice and fear and tension. He wanted out, and now. Chucking the volumes into the fire, he watched them burn.