Spiral bound things are the most aesthetically displeasing
literary device you ever did see. Like a bundling nightmare. Yet the black plastic centipede gathers and lords
over its leaves. And with unmatched efficacy, the halves meet their resting
place, a full 180 degrees apart. Your head can fully nestle in that space. Your
hands can evenly spread and reinforce such a division.
Contrarily, there is the pasted binding. When someone in their
factory-made latex gloves paints on rubber cement to a pieced-together checklisted
number of steps for assembly, they loathe the production. They defile its ease.
And people like myself are forced to keep both hands on the wheel to engage in
the reading.
Invention is forced upon us with atrocities like the book clip. But how
aesthetically displeasing are those?! Can we just all read manuscripts? The
novice has as much readership as the editor. I tussle with this living artifact like it’s a un-caress-able
cat.
"Just lie still won’t you?" I say.
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