Perfection to perfection

Perfection to Perfection


I bought a book today. A new book. Crisp cut pages enshrouded with that smell that can only be felt with nostrils pressed tight to the smooth white paper. Sitting there alone. Like a loaf of freshly baked bread. Straight from factory. Packed in box. Squeezed between brothers. Out box. Shelf. Touched by barely a handful of hands. Untarnished. Still firm. Still shining. From the shelf it called out to me. I could not but obey. It felt cool beneath my trembling palm. Under my fingers it radiated power. Yet I dared not open it. For to let my tainted fingers even so much as brush its inner pages would destroy its magic. Annihilate perfection. I didn't look at the title. For then a secret would be lost. All I had. Touch. Smell. That wonderful smell. It haunts me now. But I would have it no other way. Voices beyond the grave. They stay with you. There she lies. A shapely masterpiece. Machine-cut right angles. Mathematical perfection. She lies untouched. I know nothing. No title. No author. Just colour. And senses. I could not touch it. Annihilate perfection. Read it. Crime. Then you know. Magic gone. Dust. Shadows. No secrets. No power. I cannot let that happen. The cover opens. I touch. I don't see. First page out. Softly. Softly. Second page out. Seamlessly. Third page out. Fourth. Fifth. Until the end. All softly. Very softly. A pile of pages. Backwards. Reverse perfection. Still I do not know. The magic is still there. The secrets. The power. A pile of pages. An empty cover. Together but apart. Matches. One match for each page. The top page, the last page burns. Slowly. Slowly. You hurry. You ruin. Penultimate page burns. Burns onto last page. Ashes to ashes. All pages burn. No smoke. Just flame. All to ashes. Ashes inside empty cover. Fit perfectly. Right angles. Mathematical perfection. Cover burns. Ashes to ashes. Smoke. White smoke. Curling up. Towards the heavens. Perfection to perfection. I would have it no other way.