Beginning

Nothing beats the smell of an unread book. More pulp than promise, the freshness of that stale scent intoxicates. As long as books are printed, they will start off smelling like this one does right now.

Of course, though, everything that ever is anything at all changes. Soon the common stench of a story told overtakes the blinding blank. Tales of places gone and things remembered, futures hoped for and lifetimes already lived take their dutiful place. It hardly ever seems there was a time without a story.

And when this book finds its place within open hands some time hence, some time much farther off than it ever actually could be, not the slightest notice will be paid to the smell of paper. Far too much attention will be devoted elsewhere, captivated within recourse and recollection.

More still, that person holding those hands will care nothing for the thoughts of this night. Nor should it be. Because for all the mind knows to be true at the mere thought of each new page, it understands the oppresive shame in having paper remembered only for it. Pages were meant for so much more, beginning with this one.