An old book, water stained from a bath, crayon marks along the pages from careless hands, spine cracked and pages crinkled. The imperfections were beautiful, treasured, funny, perfect in their own way. The book tells many stories.

Now, new books, pristine, pages straight as if they’d never been read, spine cautiously maintained, cover glossy and unmarked, hands are always washed before reading. The books tell no story.

That old book sits at the back of the shelf, waiting, watching over as, with time, life becomes far more complicated and there is a desperation to be perfect. Conjured in heads, forced into brains and execution of souls to produce the ‘perfect product’. It doesn’t exist, but our own cycle of insanity prevents the old books from being on display and puts the new ones in front.