Hi, books.

You don’t exist yet, I know it. But.

I know what you look like. You’re the same color as me (because, here’s a secret, part of me is on the cover) and you have a plain brown wrapper but not the kind that hides anything. You feel good to hold. You’re the right weight and you fit in my purse.

You are my every reading-too-much ray gun and wanting to do that myself fantasy. You are all those Cocteau Twins records laid out on the floor. You are me doing graphic design in a word processor not meant for it that no one even makes anymore. You don’t require rubber cement but you remind me of how it smells. When I run my hands over you, nothing comes off on my fingers.

You are girls who sent me zines. You are late nights reading the internet. You are the crackle of gchat but none of the messy formatting. You are sure of yourself. You are discovered in thrift stores. You are all these teenage embarrassments and all the ones I won’t write ever.

You are forever, a little bit.

Love you, you 323 of 323.

ps: We want to have a party for all of you backers. (Did you get this far?) The night of March 3, in New York. More on that once we decide exactly where it is we plan to crash. There won’t be books yet, but all of you who can make it and us.