This is the book where the precious things go. This is where I put love to grow mouldy, where I put lies told to loved ones to be forgotten about – to fade with time, blanched to inedible like asparagus left in dark cupboards for the rest of lives. This is where I put my dreams and fears, stapling their excitement and power to bored pages like hunting trophies, waiting for their blood to seep out and soak until they become just words on a page. This is where I put myself, where I tried to paint the childhood portrait that would age instead of me. This is where I lost myself, in a half finished game of hide-and-seek. This will be the only place left where anyone who looked could find me. Sometimes I hear their footsteps. Sometimes I hear their breath as they pause, hand reached out, taut with intent, pink with pulsing blood. But I, being only words upon a page, cannot call them in, cannot call for help. Cannot call. I listen instead to their footsteps as they turn and walk away, each sounding so like one another’s but peppered with the hint of something new. The scent lingers stronger than any portrait, long after they have gone. You can smell newness like an aphrodisiac in here, because this is the place where the trophies are stored – the lost pennies, the shed ungreyed hairs, the priceless precious dust. This is what happens to the things we call precious.

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