A new book. Red, but not the red of stoplights or lipstick or firetrucks or Dorothy's ruby slippers. A shade, a hint, an undertone of orange, like the book (still blank) has an appreciation for nuance. And softness, for behind the plastic wrapping the book is creamy and tender of cover, unscathed by unscrupulous flicks of fingernails or snagging corners. Its edges are rounded like it knows at its nascent age that existence wears at what protrudes unprotected. Its maker was wise.
And now I must say I, interjecting uncouthly in the first person, for year as I do to be a crafter of characters and weaver of fictions I must learn these things. So here I commit to a life of unrestrained reading and writing, commencing today.
i love you.
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