form follows function.

that last one was an especially good one.  the second i turned over the last page and closed the back cover i took it with both hands and held it close to my face and felt it touch my lips and nose, slightly thumbing the pages to usher their smell to me.  i wondered, what if this had been an old book?  what if the pages were musty and held mysteries within them past the text--coffee stains, dog ears, frayed edges...  what if they hadn't been so fresh, pristine due to my delicate care for them, turning them slightly so as not to disturb their integrity...  as if they were vulnerable vessels for the tale.  what if these pages had been given time to ferment and ripen.  would i have been left with the literary embodiment equivalent to a good chateau margot?  would the story have seemed richer? it seems that the actual body on which the prose is scribed should hold within it some ancient mystical quality.  instead, his matte cover holds the same dull sheen his bookshelf brothers reflected back towards him as he left the sterile and sanctimonious world he was familiar with for one of endless possibilities.  with any luck, this one, too, will have his chance to show his battle scars.