[Quote][indent][color=gray]In private moments I take up the volume and the rough, thorny binding hums in my hand like a beehive. As I turn the pages coniferous sap sticks to my fingers. In the rustle of its paper I hear the nocturnal stirring of owls. Letters become iridescent beetles that uncase their wings with a click and whir into the air. This book is a wild tangle of words, a shadowy ravine through which unseen beasts prowl, rustling the pages as they pass.[/color][/indent][/quote]
[indent][indent]— Thomas Wharton, "The Paper-Thin Garden"[/indent][/indent]