Turn these pages with care: the page you have passed buries its readers. We stand in its doorways, lie in its beds, our spines pressed, stems browning. Turn carefully: roll onto your mate. The pages shut you together. The years are passing; your bends end in seizures, in creases and groans. Watch your hips. Turn with care: see other homes, other inhabitants stroking the paper as you stroke your sheets, the weft of a carpet, the relief of a carving - three men drinking beer in an inn while the forest looks on, clothing the tables in the shadows of trees.