The most textured, tactile of all: stroke the hair on hide, to which I add a golden thread, makes your object of all desire or an object of all undoing and who can tell which way that tale will tell?
For hair on hide, I've chosen a matching frame - not-leather-not-suede but both - curious, textured, tactile, feel me, cloth-but-not-cloth.
Next, the skull, laughing, impaled, on pole: the final triumph aloft a hazel length? Or the final mocking humiliation of once your whole-body-being? Only the teller of a tale can know which way to tumble that yarn. I've put that hazel pole, like the listener or the teller, straight up, cover front, turned towards the pages where we'll all gather our stories.
The King of Hearts, in hiding, as well he should be, both maker of hearts, breaker of hearts. Here, in this book, his status not torn from the pack, from the rest of him, from his sitting-atop the throne of his hierarchy, but cut. Cut with a deft pair of scissors, sliced away by one I pray more skilled than he: a cutter of hearts she be. Snip snip!
Loveheart lock. Love, forlorn, love withheld, love trapped and sealed away, guarded, the vulnerabilities that love needs to live, not shown. The non-telling heart, sealed behind net and double blocked by black-top pin. Steel, paper, net. I've locked you at the book back where your fingers are caught and trapped, for who breaks in?
Then, this is your book, stitched with nets to catch unwary fingers; textures of branches to twist up and confound your wandering eye; pockets, tucks, folds as codes only a story teller can tell, and the revolutions, reformations and Decalogues of ancients stitched into the binding, seeping their way into every story told.
Crafty crow?
Making sharp exit, sharp right.
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