The Book Waits

Somewhere in the library, the book waits. It’s not remarkable – a battered old leather cover, an inlaid title faded into illegibility. If you were to pick it up, you’d find it heavier than you expected, but not strangely so.

It’s the writing that might start you thinking, the text twisted and stylized, at first unrecognizable and then, slowly, as your eyes adjust, clear and beautiful. And even if you don’t understand the words, bereft of context, there’s a kind of knowing, a meaning lurking just behind the nonsense that will keep you reading.

Maybe you won’t be able to stop.


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