Bindings

And so it has come to this, that the words of a decade of digging are now in neatly typeset leaves of paper; their power is bound, the runes enchained. Somewhere in the heart of the old Queensway, in some modern sweatshop, the deep blue and gold is being crafted into bindings.

And the number of their pages is 313, a strangely evocative number. It is as if the Trinity were made One and Three again. It is as if oddness sauntered down the road and stopped to admire a postbox.

Whatever it is, it is done. It is finished. The covers will enclose the text, and then the text will be somebody else's problem or delight in the long years ahead.