The saddest story of all has never been written. Certainly it was never read. It was about a porcupine – whose only joy was writing short but thorough stories for his beloved, the white rabbit. White rabbit had gone for a long journey around the clock and crumbs porcupine was waiting for him to come back. Everyday he would sit at his desk and imagine handful and colorful words to knot together into a narration. Every day the knot would be firm and strong was a day less to recount before white rabbit’s return. But that day, February the 11th, crumbs porcupine could not think of any story. A day without a story is not a day and this lack of fantasy would keep white rabbit away. Crumbs porcupine spent the day at his desk. Old memories would enter his narration and there was neither a beginning nor an end with them. Only a story could have cuddled his love to sleep, only a story could bring the day away. In fact, the secret of a story is joy: a drop of thought into the crystalline substance of desire. He criss-crossed his legs many times, drank many cups of tea and preened his needles for a very long while. He was trapped in the cage of the day. He stood up and cleaned the apartment. Then he went for a walk. Only sadness coming from afar filled his mind and he could not focus on the wonder of white rabbit’s return. Crumbs porcupine was endlessly sad because he couldn’t write any story for his beloved. He imagined writing a story about a very sad porcupine, who wouldn’t find any story for his beloved – that would certainly be the saddest story of the world.