The book is opened to its first pages. The paper is faded, the colour of dirty rainwater, and membrane-thin. Scratches of blue-grey paint scar the pages. Even through the glass, it smells ozonic, laced with petrol. The writing is spidery and hurried. Though plaque describes it as a draft of a novel, it reads like a confession. What the author is could be confessing to is unclear, but they beg, over and over, for the stars to forgive them.