For me, Moleskine is the writing equivalent of sleeping in satin sheets, only better.
It is a testament to the treasuring of words.
It is more important to me than fine clothes, fine food, jewelry, or
other luxury items. Its extravagance is only perceived, because my
Moleskine habit costs me roughly 14 cents a day. And yet, in a
no-frills life, it is the epitome of beauty mixed with practicality.
It is my almost-constant companion. It holds the raw data of my life
with care and dignity, even when I’m being silly, whiny, or otherwise
considerably undignified. It is my PDA and my secretary, my confidante
and my nag. It offers me unconditional acceptance of whatever I
scribble inside it.
It is my temple and my meditation mat. It is my vacation and my escape. It is my memory and my scatterbrain.
Blank, it is a future of unlimited potential. Filled, it is a history and an heirloom of ideas.
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