The response is actually something that has been brewing in my head as a fictional story. Well, a sappy love story, about someone who is grieving their lost love, talking about how, at the singularity at the beginning of the universe they were together. How unlikely it would be that they would ever meet again, and how unlucky to have parted due to whatever event has left them apart.

To track each and every atom of a person's being throughout out their history, and to cherish each and every one of those fragments.

Something like that. My dotpoint in my to do list is "Tracking atomic origins of you" ... as more of a part of a science-fictiony anthology of short stories.

I miss creative writing, and I properly need to devote the time to put it all together into a collection of new stories that have been bubbling around in my head.

I used to write stories on this platform, some time ago. Some are silly, but one of them is along the lines of what would go into such an anthology, but it needs a bit of polish and expansion before it could be ... uh, printed on paper ?

Its super, dooper short:

Behind panes of clean, gleaming glass, a neat row of bookshelves sat, drenched in the afternoon sun. On each shelf, tidy rows of books. Each had a thin layer of plastic to preserve the pages from decay and contamination.

Several samples sat on the counter, between two young women. The woman behind the counter wore a floral dress. Its swirling patterns interrupted by a name badge.

Natasha.

Natasha had a soft, round; bohemian face; and manicured hands. It was important to keep good hands in her line of work - people would not buy mishandled books. She had been in this industry for a long time, and was good at her craft.

Natasha spoke to other woman. A sharp featured, slim blonde, wearing a bronze turtleneck sweater.

"This one's a lovely read. We use the pulp of french oak to help deepen the sense of mystery and intrigue. The trees are felled in the winter; ensuring a soft; earthy aroma. This ensures that this coming of age tale remains connected to the land."

The blonde blinked beneath her glasses, a soft hand moving ever so slightly across the textured page of the demonstrator novel. As her lips parted, she exhaled. The paper was exquisite.

"Will it archive well?"

"Before final packaging, the typeface pigment stabilises under filtered light, through centennial glass."

The blonde was curious, and asked more; "What was the production volume?"
"For this edition, only two hundred were produced in french oak."
"And, of the other pulps?"
"Five editions, in total, each with two hundred copies. French Oak, Pine, Hemlock, Birch, or recycled. Our recycled, pine and birch are available via distributors. French Oak and Hemlock are available only from our studio."

Hemlock was the most sought after of the editions for tales of youth, and had the price-tag to match. The woman wasn't able to buy something like that, yet. The French Oak would have to do.

"I'll take one of the French Oaks," she said, considering her choice. It would prove a fine read in a few years, shared with friends in a moment of crisis.

"Excellent choice."

The transaction was completed in short order, and a copy of the book was packaged tightly, destined to sit in a high, dark place until such a time that it would be enjoyed, become contaminated and decay.