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The book I’m holding is sturdy like a rock but appears as vibrant gradation, like a spear of light in a prism or the memory of a peacock in flight. I thumb open the tome guided by one of three ribbons, each a different shade of red, to mark the start of something, or my eager return. Inside I find lines of instruction, but also many other kinds of lines, some that provide directions (“Journey inward toward new exteriors”) or pose questions (“What are the heroics of a lack of heroic qualities?”). Still others simply stretch open the mind. I’m…