The book calls to me, as it has every day since I started reading it.

I tried to block it out through my old passions, burying myself in the recorded words of ancient civilizations.

I failed to distract myself with other projects.

The book calls to me no matter how much I try to ignore it.

It speaks to me through my dreams by making me relive the pages that I've uncovered.

During my dreams, I'm not the stereotypical academic my students see.

Always with a coffee cup in one hand and a thick book in the other.

I'm a warrior, praying to long-forgotten gods, not with words, but through the blood that spills down my sword and coats my flesh.

The metallic taste fills my mouth as I cut them down.

Men, women, and children all fall before me, including my own brothers and sisters.

None can stand against the Davites.

The dream stay with me long after I wake.

My body is filled with heat, my heart, pumping with the energy of a young man.

I crave flesh in a way that I've never experienced in my life before.

What would my colleagues think of me if they knew what I did on those nights I couldn't sleep?

Would they look at me with fear or admiration if they knew the odd hours?

I stalked the city streets, looking to indulge my body with pain or pleasure, or both. There will be no such

fun tonight. I know this as I kick off the sheets around my sweat-coated body. This kind of

longing can't be filled with sex or violence. It can only come through salvation by throwing

myself before the altar of the Davites.

And I can only do that with the book.

I barely dress in my rush to obtain the object of my desire.

...