How Loud My Hollowness Is

I am a wonderfully written book. Beautifully illustrated and
meticulously typeset. I come in two volumes, choked full of epigrams,
aphorisms, wit, and passages that break your heart, yet at the same
time gladden your spirit.

I don’t need to be read.

I know I am not a bestseller. I am difficult. With sentences striding
multiple pages, and a vocabulary of 20,000 real and 15,000 invented
words. Not many people have the intellectual breadth or emotional
depth to appreciate me. This is only natural.

But I am still a masterpiece. What does it matter that nobody reads me?

It is better I am not read. I don’t want to be made into a movie.

I was written. That’s enough.