The warm, hardly musty scent. A light crinkle, the paper dry against the tips of one’s fingers. A canvas, a storyboard, a tale so encompassing. Pages covered in love, discovery.
Shut one eye, perhaps step back.
Little black letters are arranged on a page so is to create such tales. The arrangement of these letters encompass feeling, passion, lust… perhaps? Greedily, a spine may creak having only been opened once before. Pages fresh and crisp, no folds or creases to be found. The cover not yet so worn that it remains stiff and mildly uncomfortable for the beholder. Nonetheless, magic is hidden between these bindings. Pages so thin untouched by another.
Eyes skim over the little black keystrokes, so neatly arranged on the canvas. It’s a painting in it’s own way. The thrill of it, a new adventure, one not yet heard. The bliss of it, quite possibly cannot be described in any other way.
A new book. A new journey.
so it begins