I never knew its name, but it was the first book I remember handling. The bookshelves go all the way to the roof, but the first row of books rest on the floor. I reach out to the top of one and it falls into my lap as I sit cross-legged. Dark green cover that doesn't bend but I can make it turn one way then back. And inside its all white with black lines. And the lines all end at the same place. But before they end they are all different. They have bits that are the same but they are in different places.
"Who makes these?"
"People. They sit down and write them."
There's a pencil in my hand. On the other side of the green it's white. I draw black lines on it, like the inside.
If you want to know what my Book Haven is made of, read on.