An analysis by yours truly.
Recently I read up on a certain Mr. Nicholas Flammel. Apparently he happened upon the secret for the philosopher’s stone by… his labour. An accident, perhaps, but we’re not here today to discuss the meaning of fate.
This book was bound in brass, and was written not in paper or parchments, but rinds, as in, peeled bark from soft trees. There’s three sets of seven leaves, for what I would assume is a total of 21 “pages.”
Here’s a preliminary rendition of the book’s outer appearance. I was intending to do much more than this, but alcohol took over; immediacy took hold of responsibility and good habits. Fuck off, she’s with someone else. May god help us all.
The symbols are just giberish I scrambled together at random. May those versed in the arts excuse me.
PS: Everything went smoothly after the gift. It helped clarify the most hidden secrets, and reafirm our status as a “bizarre happening of nature,” one which must be enjoyed at all costs.