We are all a volume on a shelf of a library, a story unto
ourselves, never possibly described with one word or even very
accurately with thousands. A person is never as quiet or
unrestrained as they seem, or as bad or good, as vulnerable or as
strong, as sweet or as fiesty; we are thickly layered, page upon
lying page, behind simple covers. And love - it is not the book
itself, but the binding. It can rip us apart or hold us together.