And when the hedge was ash, there was a book next to you and I thirsted more to see what was bound within it than to face you, and you thirsted more to see what was bound within it than to face me. Within the book form gave to content image, so that it could be seen, and form left space between the figures where breath could insert itself, and content could return to form. Inside the book one found the complete opposite of the other, as if it were a mirror.

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When one read the book, the other copied it in their own writing and sewed threads in a braid along each edge, so that it was bound. When the book is done, you place it in the first corner, and when another is done, you place it next to it, until three walls are lined with books wedged in too tight for space between. As a row is filled along three walls, one starts another row directly, on top of the previous row. Each book has three dimensions: when it is open (1), when it is written (2), and when it is read (3).


The firmament and the Earth have the same density as the book. They are as tall and as wide. We behold the spaces set aside for the word, for the image, and through the reading to some degree as in a mirror. I secretly speak the word within my heart before I say it aloud, before you write it. These three are one and lead beyond, transcending the room with its three walls, three dimensions, and three possible interpretations.

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