His patience was growing thin. His composure already slipping. He had everything and he didn't want it anymore. In fact, he hated it, so much that he'd rather escape, to pretend that his 17 years of living was merely a dream, and that he was finally waking up for the first time. He took his chances and met the most secretive bunch. This was his story, yet it wasn't. Can lying and suffering really be better than serenity and boredom?