Twenty Lines a Day
02/26/24, Portland
Age is anthropodermic bibliopegy containing my unimportant words away. The covering keeps contents from rain and young finger pads. The dustier the cover the better it becomes at its tightness. Hydrothermal shrinkage compresses in its brittle pigskin ribcage words once meant for reading but now only holding. Young dark irises turn away in nausea from cracking flesh ensuring what lies within cannot move without. Without what? Without dark holes leading to thoughts with more time to root. How to keep a thing bending: continue to work its creases, be unafraid of ruining it, find the joy of what lies within to be more valuable than the form that holds it. What are words without ears or eyes of fingertips? They are marks without meaning. Age is a thing despised only when it loses connection with the children.