A big fat book.
I’ll have to hollow it out.
I don’t see any other way to fit inside.
Of course I’ll have to leave the covers, the binding, and the outer edges of every inner page.
But what to do with the scraps?
Even the dogs are fed these.
Yes, I’ll eat them.
I’ll digest what’s been hallowed.
Then I’ll climb inside.
The cut-outs will be back in position.
Yes, all still right there, entirely inside, all in its proper place.
The complete volume.
The entire collected work.
The only difference is now I’m part of the story.
An essential part.
Without the pages in my belly the whole thing is essentially empty.
Here I am, tucked away, a perfect fit, fetal position within the bind of an ever-revolving nook.
The covers tightly closed, the pages all accounted for, the sanctity of the space preserved.
Now I can rest assured…
Not a bit of attention on little ole me.
But what if someone opens the cover?
Oh my, what if he turns the title page?
The jig is up!
I’m spotted for sure…seen as I am.
A stowaway. Hidden from the crowd. Holding out for the end of the storm. Eyes closed even within the dark pages of night.
But what’s he doing now?
He can’t possibly…
No, no…get away…this is my spot…there’s not enough space for two…
What do you mean there’s plenty of room?
What do you mean there are already a million others inside?
I don’t see anybody but myself.