I've been tearing paper, upon paper, upon paper. My warming drawer has been filled over and over again with piles of it, each one immersed side by side then taken out... meticulously so as not to tear the edges. Did I find a place to walk around the paper carpet of my house? My tip toes sufficed as I navigated through the unbound labyrinth.
The smell of coffee, paper and tea lurks but dissipates as each dries out. I prepare leather, thread and covers while I wait for the process to adhere and dry. Once dried, in the press it goes, unless the press is otherwise occupied with bindings without their finishing touches.
I seek to fill the shelves of my stores in the up and coming weeks, as well as my market tables and the like, with sumptuous journals to satisfy even the fussiest writer.
As I tear the paper and watch it climb to a tower, I hear violins, my wind chime and the crackling of paper... an interesting and inspiring composition if I might say so myself. Would Phillip Glass like to collaborate maybe? I ought to send him an email.
Stand by I must, while I gather momentum for the next stages, excited by the unknown I am about to create.