Once upon a time, long long ago — or at least that’s how the story goes — I made a box. A book box. It was assembled by hand from various bits of old wood laying about the property — cedar planks, redwood trim and various used pines. As I am likely to do, I doodled a few drawings up on and in said box, though, unlike most other times scribbling happens, a soldering iron was involved. If I etch symbols on you with fire and smoke, that means I like you. (Or very much not.)
The box, as it turns out, was a birthday gift. A place to hide away a manuscript from the light of day when my wife was not working on it.
I mention this because … it is so very dark outside tonight. And that has me wondering now, wondering whether it was I who burned in the script I see on the side of box (for it was so very long ago now)… and what language is this script?
