In the style of Borges. The Monster.

Two years ago I was given an old book, it once belonged to my good friend Matt Smith, now departed. The book had been in storage for some time, at least since his passing four years ago, most likely for many years longer then that, and upon coming into my possession I must admit that it then suffered another year of storage tucked away in a not often accessed filling cabinet. But last spring I was tidying up its storage space and when I saw it, I felt a tinge of guilt about ignoring the poor thing, so I then decided to give it my full attention.

Around the book was wrapped a paper, written on in pencil "The Weeping Angel" The cover gave one distinct impression when one looked at it, it was ancient. The material was uncertain, but resembled something between cracked leather and birch bark. On the out side the cover bore no text, only an image of a knot of vines tangled upon one another in the shape of a great tree. But one the inside cover was inscribed 'Bin Yayla' the meaning of which I am still not sure. Intrigued I decided to read deeper, but wedged in the book was a piece of paper, a bookmark? no it was a warning of some kind. The language was Turkish but with the help of my college Dr. Tim R Lang I was able to produce a rough translation of the warning.

Beware, beware. All that traces needs to beware.
It will unorder the world.
That which holds the image of it becomes it.
I dare not say more, I dare not say more.
Too many readers already have become this monster.
I did see and, I am becoming book.
Gaze upon me and you to shall loose your center.
Throw it away, once you understand why it is too late.

Once I we completed the translation I thanked Tim for his assistance, and asked that he be off, but not before he mentioned that the bulk of the text was an incomprehensible pidgin of Turkish with several European languages. I placed the warning in it original position, accompanied by a copy of my newly acquired translation of the warning. Closing the book once again I looked at the cover.

The tree made of a knot mesh of a thousand vines, now I realized the nature of the monster. The warning I had worked over for the lions share of the day made me see the image on the cover of what it is, and in seeing it I became it. An image of the book is the book. I had been the tree, now I am vines.