Her pages are still blank.
They stretch out before me clean and innocent; white, undefiled by human worries and cares.
They hold no weight, no words, no ink.
They bear no marks, no wrinkles, no wounds.
She carries like a mirror I have yet to put to face, but soon my newfound friend will reflect my journey back to me with ardent care and tender articulation.
A little leather, some paper and some string: a potent assembly bound into a daunting task and a daring hope.
I bought a new journal today, and from my lap she whispers, "Her pages are still blank."
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