Not a box. Not a mural.
Not a half-hearted string of letters.
Not pages covered with images.
A book of my own concepts.
With my words and my winding staircase thoughts, my contradicting adventure thirsty characters.
My ideas and my stories.
My imagination printed in black as charcoal ink.
Nobody's to take. Nobody's to change or to swipe at.
Only a book as simple as rainfall, a palace for my creations, real as the blood running in veins.
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