I reached to pick the old black bag off the floor. Its nylon construction was threading and its leathery label had faded. I gently pulled the zipper down the center of the bag, careful as to prevent it from derailing. The bag's cloth sides fell back revealing my hurried assortment of casual clothing. Excitedly digging beneath my jeans, t-shirts and other eclectic pieces of clothing, I felt the rough, cloth-like cardboard of The Book. Guided by slight indent of the spine I, already smelling the burnt scent of the paper, felt and identified the silver engraved lettering and the softly textured pages of The Book. To guard against damage to such valuable property, I had buried it deep, although over the years the book's cover had suffered a malady of white specks where the hardback coating had been worn down. Grey-green was the color of the cover with an outside which at sight appeared woven, giving the feeling of a natural cover to the jacket. Sitting on the hotel bed, in the light of a grey setting sun on a woeful and lonely stormy day, I held the words in my trembling hands. The room was red and yellow - deep red duvets, curtains of blood, bronze lampshades and clotted cream walls. Bright under the sun, in the grey light of the falling sun, the room seemed somehow larger, walls drifting to the horizon. The door was light pine, and I was quite alone.

The Book had no lettering on the cover; the words were on the spine. In a stark difference to the rest of the manufacture, the spine's lettering was surprisingly modern - small authenticity next to the purposeful illusion of the un-technological attempt at fabric jacketing. Modern Fairy Tales, although never once is a fairy mentioned, and magic? If love was magic!

Opening the front cover, the book issues a light crackling noise from the binding which to me is instantly recognizable and I suddenly feel as if I am on solid, safe ground, even though I am so very distant from home. When the book was new, ten years ago, opening the cover creaked gloriously, like a gateway to another world: another world - somewhere in the near future, a place distant, beyond my seventeen years, and at the same time somewhere true and bold - a place of hope yet, without real existence. The real world, so concerned with unhappiness and gloom, was not mine, never the flame in a still night, burns until death. My optimism was and is in the world of the written word, on every description, conclusion and exclamation; words represent another possibility, thus never an impossibility. Comfort, freedom, idealism, all leading to realism was the reason I had brought and read that book for that day.

I did not start reading at the beginning. Rapidly turning the warm pages, I fanned over the sociological Catastrophe Aloof, the terrifying Mirrors of Ice, and unintelligible The Laughter of Lords and deliciously opened the a crisp contrasted page, which heralded the starting The Story, which had time and time again, issued, in my heart, literary death sentence to the remains of the book. It was a spice to glass, a trail of turmeric, meandering through an epic tapestry in silver crowns and grey flora. Estes Tigerbound was her name!

Shining forth the shadows dance; it is the light of the girl who makes all life meaningful! You are not the only one to care, in fact you are near inconsequential in her perceptual gaze. You suffer in cruelty to say the least, being isolated from the warmth and pleasure that you know the world experiences without you. Yes, Estes Tigerbound walks the hallways with the bright lights shining on her passage. She has nothing to fear but age and even that is delayed beyond the wits of nature's intentions for even the earth loves her beauty and does not look upon it with cold eyes. Sickly, eternal earth can only watch in horror as the wind tears at her face and rips the skin to shreds in time. Her coffin awaits, oh yes, and it's comfortable, padded in silk sheets, a resting place for the echos of her past that was once loved so very dearly.

It is another social event in the castle, and Estes Tigerbound is finely dressed and sound in mind and spirit, talking in hushed tones to the reflective people of little care. They stand in front of her to be absorbed in the fire that energizes passions and empires. The fire that haunts the castle, that stands behind the black gate that defends the Tigerbound estate from the desirous capitalism, the elemental and atomic universe that splits and coughs its achievements and yet breaks bones in honor, loses a leg in war, and all but in pursuit of a image of reality that passes through the universe. Yes, artistry is for fools, but no fool but a scientist would pass Estes Tigerbound! And yes, her secret is thus - this wild shape in windswept dress, cascading layers of hair, will live forever until the one who sees her flaw passes her ecumenical soar and the spell will be broken.

You will break her down.

Don't be so modest you writhing spider of humanity, your heart is an explosion pestering your body to life. There is life in you that you have glimpsed when you run your fastest, think your quickest, and love to the point of drowning. Yes, you my friend, will steer the skiff, rotate the pyramid, and eat the python and make Estes Tigerbound human again. Look at your door, it is angry, and barring-solid isn't it? You prisoner, you fool, it must be open, it must be natural, the wet grass must be soft under your feet, the smell of the cool morning in the air, the ice on your hands, the cut on your hand. Did you feel that? Feel the warmth and pleasure, catch a glimpse of hem of the dress? Oh no, she's not in the room with you, your mind is cruel and dark, it wants you to believe she knows about you already, that her mind is consumed entirely with the contemplation of your innumerable values. Yes, walk through that door this instant! Break it down if you must, and tear it limb from limb, for it will stalk you, oh yes, in the death of night it will stalk you, it will close on you, it will pull you into the comfort, the solid rock of your own prosperity, shattering in the earthquake, dying in the theatre you own. Out into the woods, in the plains, where the birds sing all day and the wolves sing all night - never walk, run. Never rest, sleep. Never dream, experience. You arrive in paradise among the flowers, the reeds, the hot blooded tomatoes, the celery with a soul of ice. Kill that foul thing and your hunger will lust no more. Raise yourself as you are meant to be. And, when you are ready, and the warmth is exhausted, the flowers smell not so sweet, the spiny chime of the night waterfall is softening, the whistling of the crystal stars is screaming, when the glimmering metal cold in your hand is as warm as your sweat, it is then you must approach the black gate. Approach it and look through to the thickly wooded drive. The drive opens out onto a field of finely cut grass. A man cuts every shoot to the precise length that required by the Tigerbound household. The house rises up, gleaming, shining, white stone towers, and from the highest window Estes Tigerbound waves to you! But, lo! It is too late. For you the forests now call, the misty mornings, the fires, the sunsets, the mountains. No, Estes establishes esoteric comparison, and the earth's one true love, the one true love that can lift it out of your cruel actions, yes, the very heart of the earth is gifted unto itself, and Estes is let free from her spell of immortality.

The wind will take her face, my dear reader: take her before she shatters.

The room around me is not adequate; my desire is in those deep, dark forests. I run. I run as fast as I can. I run to where I am meant to be, I run to the place I have traveled one thousand miles from home to see. I arrive at the wrought iron, the gate which is painted black, the gate that I know opens to the drive, which opens out to the lawn, where the man cuts the grass and Estes Tigerbound will wave to me from the tower! I have never spent the years in the dew of nature, the loving rain, the scalding deserts. I notice my thirst, but I pull back the iron gate. I pull and it opens the drive to my inhabitation. I run down the road, the thickly wooded path and in the grey sky it opens to reveal the towering castle. I hear a shout, and noise, and the world is blurred, I feel a searing pain in my heart! Through my dying vision, as I collapse onto the long, unkempt grass, I see the legend, but as she turns from her tower window her body becomes skewed, it narrows rather than curves, thinner it grows, and in the end, all I can see is the edge of the cardboard.