The Book of Memory


There is a book. A magic book. A book of blood and bone, certainly, and jacketed with skin. But it is much, much more than this. All the experiences you have ever had and ever will have are captured in its pages. The writing of this book began the second you were born, and it will be written until the moment of your death. And beyond that too. There is far more in your life than can be contained within the prison of your birth and death.

It is a book of redactions: immense swathes of black, dominating, dark, and depthless, as far as the eye can see. The sentences, and pictures, and scents and sounds, and tastes and touches are bright islands in an ocean of oil black night.

A strange book, indeed. But even stranger than this. Every time you read it, every time you look at it, these sentences, these bright islands in the night, can change. You will never catch them changing, but they will. They will change precisely because you look at them. Precisely because you read them. It is your reading, your looking, that changes them. 

This is your book. This is the book of you.