Help!!

There's something dark in my room. Every time I walk in I am filled with an unending sense of trepidation. My feet suffer earthquakes, my eyes sting with poison. Every thread of my clothes pulls me back, back into the security to which I can never return. My fingers twist into knots like a Chinese acrobat and nerves roll down my skin in drops.

And yet I'm drawn to it like roadkill to tarmac. I cannot pull my eyes back, I have seen, I must continue. I know what lies within, the extraordinarily long descriptions, the excess number of characters and detail, the refusal to tell the story in a direct manner.

Charles Dickens, the things you do to me are cruel.

But I'm well going to finish it else I'll be proper annoyed with myself.

Someone put the kettle on, I'm getting to the end of this book if it kills me.

(it might)