Marilyn Weaver

A hastily scrawled name. Marilyn Weaver. She etched her name in ink on the front page and forgot about it. The unloved book. Its pages slowly turned yellow. Its words, unread. The teal outer shell is almost grotesque with age and spots of unknown origins. I hold the textual island of misfits in my hands. There is no wisdom here. No forgotten manual on how to achieve happiness. This book is unloved, and its contents un-spilled. The crop of new minds, un-sown. Never before or ever more will an eager, nubile scholar hold this text in his hand and ponder its meaning. It has no meaning. It is raw, putrid, chittering bile. It is the combined effort of every sickness and anathema known to man. Marilyn Weaver banished it from her mind, as did every other unfortunate soul who picked it up. Its filth and its stench are memories long wished forgotten. This book is unloved. It is my book.