If I took the time to think about it, “It” would pass me by. For “It” finds me before I even sought to look.
The Sutra’s of my heart are joined in the middle by a writhing dragon, too stubborn to let go, too toothy to gently nibble at the chain.
Heartfelt treasures cannot be stored in parchment or jade, they are more resilient than the most luminous mineral and more timeless than words could ever maintain. But who am I to complain? For there seems nothing more romantic than a weathered book, scorched by the hands of time or anything more transcendent then a string of jade.