Oh dearest notebook,

Where would we writers be,

Without your blank pages to house,

Our archive of brainstorms and descriptions,

And maybe even the beginners of bestsellers,

Treasured manuscripts,

Gathered in spiral-bound pages,

Blue and red lines and margins,

Like veins and arteries on the page's blank white skin,

Veins of inky blood,

Its heart is our writing.

The End

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