With trembling fingers, I reach down towards the paper - once blank, now it’s filled in, words running off edges, random doodles scattered about, some random ink-seeped spots. What was once a crisp clean page is now worn and aged, but with little marks that define it; the large cutout of a star bookmarking the climax, small polaroids taped on unevenly, as if the stickiness has left residue on the authors fingers. Many older folds are left as only faded lines under the weight of the many pages - blemishes reduced, but scar still left. Words run left and right, running in my head out of focus, but the only thing I can read is: "What comes next?”
I turn the page.
'Tis an extended metaphor for ~LIFE~ lol. In honor of finally banishing the metal from my mouth.