On the first spread, a fragment of a —a pressed fern, its ink turned the color of dried blood—was pinned over a topographic map of a city that no longer existed. The edges of the paper were brittle, the color of tea and toasted rye, crumbling slightly under the pads of the reader’s fingers.
The story wasn't written in sentences, but in juxtapositions. A from 1922 was glued next to a hand-written line of poetry: “The tracks remain, but the destination has dissolved.”
The volume was indexed as , but it was more of a physical memory than a book. Its dimensions— 1023x1636 —didn't follow the standard ratios of the Royal Octavo or the Common Folio. It was tall, narrow, and felt like a door standing slightly ajar.
This is a tale of a book that refused to be read in a straight line. The Architect of Scraps