Just look closer and read the material: the paper, the pulp, the tree that hugs the ink--it's between the lines and snuggled within the letters. Just look closer, the closest you can get then I'll tell you that there's nothing to see to here. Just listen as you slide your finger across the corner of the page, and I'll tell you that's music when you swipe the sheet from right to left, as the friction massages the fibers and makes them groan in sharp whispers. Your digits groping 191 and, just like I said, its gasps float about. Look what you've done: invisible bonds in the air, devastated and out of breath by the roller coaster waves you've sent their way, page 192 whisked away mid-kiss from 193, the only page he's known--they've had their faces pressed tightly until you came along, and when you've read them like an open book and had your way with the stories on their faces, you'll roll them over and make them kiss again. The drama! Those fibrous vocal chords crinkling and whispering and loving and moving, I'll have you know, is the music that I'm talking about. It's the sound of motion and continuity and, well, of our miracle.