I may be an open book, but reading what's written is harder than it looks. Layers of ink piled on top of each other—stories written in haste, written in tears, written in love, written in lust, written to remember, written to forget. Layers and layers, in colors once vibrant, now muddled and muddy, like thick layers of rotting leaves. Each story, a different decaying leaf, all pressed together to make a paper sheet. But if you can lift out each delicate story, one layer at a time, preserving them as individual memories, all neatly displayed, you won't be left with an empty shell of a book, but my cozy mind instead.
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