This is a book that's vacating its old, dilapidated house.

This is a book that's finding its sense of self, losing it, and daring to look for it again. This is an angry book, a sad book, a disillusioned and cynical and hopelessly hopeful book that's comfortable in its complexity.

This is a book discovering its agency, deciding who gets a say in what and when. It's an emphatic yes to honesty, a vehement denial of the superficial.

This is a book that refuses to dilute itself.

This is a book that imagines a more loving future, especially when fantasy seems cruel. It's a book that gives itself permission to dream once more.

This is a book with a packed bag. It's a book with an analog map and a plane ticket into the mind's eye. It's a book that's taking leave.

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