Yang- Write them down. ~~─────────────────── Number. One ~~─────────────────── "She was homesick for someone she had not yet met" -Atticus ~~─────────────────── Everyone owns that one book. Bound in blue, dashed with red; big and noble, or small and simple. You flip through the thin pages and breathe in the almond-vanilla scent. The pages, so fragile, like the wings of a moth. Each individual part so light, but bound together in such a chunky volume. The dictionary, dictionarius liber. "A book or electronic resource that lists the words of a language (typically in alphabetical order) and gives their meaning, or gives the equivalent words in a different language, often also providing information about pronunciation, origin, and usage" quote the Oxford Pocket English Dictionary. Such a brilliant concept that radiates, one may call it 书香. We don't have this word in English. At least not a word that radiates such an aura. 书 meaning book, 香 meaning fragrance. “Scholarly” is the word that electronic translation offers me. It sounds like a word reproduced in a factory for the masses. Chemically altered, all of the little flaws chiseled out to provide the cleanest service to the users. None of the original beauty; the image of the wax papered windows, the smell of the homemade candles, the rustling of the linen robes, remains. To me, 书香 means the studious, refined air something gives off. It's an exhaustive experience that Latin-rooted languages can't capture. The strokes of the word and the ancient history linked to the meaning, those are all lost in translation. That's what the concept of the dictionary makes me feel. But that's just the concept. As shown by the above example, we simply can't write out the meaning of a word without losing something in the process. That's partly why everything about the tangible dictionary disgusts me. The either extravagant or overly plain covers, so unnatural and awkward. The strange font that always seems to be the choice of a middle-aged teacher who's preparing a presentation for their grade-school class. The meanings that are so bland, yet still somehow incompressible to the masses. ~~─────────────────── Number. Two ~~─────────────────── "Was I so easy to forget?" -Atticus ~~─────────────────── "Lepidopterist, Noun. A person who collects moths and butterflies. " That's the closest word From the yellowing pages Of the past, that fits. Everyone had dreams. And everyone dreamed of fae. Our musings turned real. Ordinality, It's ten plain letters. But it Hides a blade inside. The magic dream has Crashed. Falling, failing, falling Down to the last line. "They're measly pests." Says the big wigs. Normal ones Wear their thinking caps. I suppose it's good. At least it is for meek me. Collecting freely. No masses chanting for creature conservation. "Save, please!" they yell. Not. So I buy my tools. I browse sites, books, study up. Because I still dream. Of the beautiful. Those bright eyes of dew and moonlight. So small, enchanting. Now I have walls full Of frames, filled to the brim with My precious samples. Not about collection. More of the chase, the capture, the adrenaline. ~~─────────────────── Number. Three ~~─────────────────── Laegas