The volumes on this shelf have blank spines, and the blankness confuses visitors until the rule is explained: the shelf is decoration, and the studio refuses to let decoration impersonate documentation. A spine printed with borrowed authority would claim knowledge this desk does not keep. The one document here — her card — makes the opposite choice: five plain lines, written exactly, claiming nothing beyond one fictional woman.
The distinction runs through the work. Prompts inherit it: the card paragraph is kept factual and pasted verbatim, and all the poetry is confined to the changing line, where it can do no harm. Judging follows it too: a frame is first read as a document — does it match the entry, line by line? Only frames that pass as documents are then admired as pictures.
Blank spines also keep the studio honest about its scope. This desk publishes no facts about the world, edits no public record and answers no questions. It keeps one entry, about one invented person, and keeps it exactly.
Let the shelf be beautiful and silent. Let the entry be plain and exact. Confusing the two is how studios end up with impressive shelves and drifting characters.