The book in your hands contains only two pages. Its cover is thick, made of black-lacquered wood.
The image on the cover represents a gray key to a door of a house that no longer stands. You still own the key the cover represents.
On the back, the pattern of a quaint, worn carpet is represented.
You open the book. You look at page two, right side, first. There is a reproduced photograph of your face. Under the photograph appears the word, "You."
On page one, left side, is a color reproduction of a woman's face. It is severe, her face, but not disturbing. The hair, cut short, is a color called "red," but the hair is really a kind of orange. Some of it is brown.
The book was and remains a gift. You close it. You think, "That was not bad, not bad at all. Satisfying, even." It has given you a lot to think about.
Showing posts with label 113. Book In Your Hands. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 113. Book In Your Hands. Show all posts
Monday, March 22, 2010
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