A messy collection of notes and prose is bound together in a swirl of blue leather. Stained with ink, wrinkled with water, it does not present itself as a thing of beauty or of merit, though perhaps it was not created with the eyes of the world in mind. If not for the title, the front would be mistakable for the back.
The black in has chipped, but the elvish script is still legible.
<To My Ephemeral Muse>
The black in has chipped, but the elvish script is still legible.
<To My Ephemeral Muse>