The very first thing I thought to do after finishing this masterpiece was to saunter with tear streaked cheeks over to my windowsill where I could sit and softly seize hold of all that was billowing inside of me. Gazing into my garden, I serenely drank in the sight of each and every flower brightly proclaiming its life amidst verdant puffs of grass. The vernal sun cast warmth upon my cheeks, panes of glass reflecting the blue clarity of the sky within my eyes.

I am left with so much inside of me to say, and yet, I find that words cannot illustrate the force of sublimity this trilogy has left me floating within. I am unsure if I will ever be able to find another work of fiction that will "surpass" the misborn trilogy for me.

I spent many years of my own life feeling as though I were ravaged by hemalurgic spikes, perverted and puppeted beneath the malevolent hands of psychosis and expectation. Oftentimes like a tineye... living with the raw, intrusive consequences of burning their metal indefinitely. Fiction (fantasy in particular) has aided me in ways much like the mists aided Vin during moments of clarity. Breathing strength into me during the calamitous ticks of a clock where I could taste the mouth of ruin fatally biting into me. Moribund hands reaching outward in a desperate tremble to discover a strength that already has come when called from within. Perhaps this makes little sense when explained and not felt, however, I wish only to say that this trilogy has given me such a profound sense of awe. I feel full. I feel at peace. I feel the world around me.