I would read every page of the book in your hand if I could open it. The photograph captures the spine and the glut of the hardback’s gilding, a sliver of page as careful and modest as the point of your white throat. You sit rigidly while your mind composes a decades-long poem to God. Specks of changed metal descend on your bookish cell. You ask questions regarding salvation, but I have no answers and merely take notes: transcendent bibliophile, alchemical, oddly dressed.
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