She’s a book. No not a paperback, but a hardcover. An inviting sight, yet cold to the touch. The scent of woody pages lingers, the edges never ceasing to cut your grazing finger when you least expect it. Her intricate words, unnecessarily bewildering Her methaphorical phrases will have your head throbbing as you so desperately search for their meanings. “Daedalian”, she would say, “As in ingenious, intricate, and confusing” You spend hours figuring how to unravel her Delphic words. The more you read the more complex she gets. A thin line appears in the middle of her spine, a crack, from being opened and closed too much. Her exhausted pages tattered and dog eared. Your determination to solve her was no match for her ambiguity. She’s a hardcover you’ll never finish reading.