I've long since wondered whether the the empty pages left at the end of a book serve any purpose at all. 

Maybe they were intentionally printed out blank and tempting. Maybe the writer didn't feel like finishing the novel off the way he intended. These pages may well be the unspeaking continuation of an almost finished story, left for you to bring it sound. Left for you to complete.

I'd like to think that these few papers serve as a surface for consolation, on which the devastation the book reminded you of leaks. Damp with flashbacks.

They're more likely there to solicit personal views of the reader. You; your condemnation of what the writer believed in, your itching desire to thank him for the belated revelations he seeded in you.

Why then -- if not just to be there for irretrievable feedback -- why would they leave you so frustrated with this empty space? 

Perhaps it's just there for you. Your very eccentric, beautiful, jumbled, bare self. 

This empty space, held by the cracks of a worn out spine, calling out to you, "spill it all."

Spill it all.

Every word. 

Because what I hold inside is not enough.