“It was not noisy, that smell. It was delicate, insistent, motioning me with its ink stained finger.
I was being emitted from some corner. It was so, so familiar. I recognize it. It aroused my curiosity.
Decay? Yes, I suppose it was decay. But it was a pleasurable scent of decay. Like the sea breeze that carries with it the scent of the colour white on a hot day.
Was it ink? Lying, fearlessly, carelessly, within the confines of one page after another. A notebook, humidity had crept into its insides.
You open it to be faced with a strange feeling that this is your story.”