A book written as if the pen itself were haunted—Price’s verses drift between confession and invocation, half diary, half hymn. It’s poetry that doesn’t decorate but distills: longing, surrender, the sharp ache of faith pressed into rhythm. Each page feels like a mirror left out in the rain—blurred reflections of the self, smudged yet still cutting. Not sentimental, not ornamental, but a record of a soul trying to carve its shape against eternity

-Great - Book is well kept and displays minimal signs of age or wear.

-All conditions are subjectively evaluated based upon age.