I love books. Love 'em. Sometimes after I finish reading a book, I'll hold it in front of me, bury my head deep into it and just breathe in its essence (Fun Fact: Many books smell kind of like Fritos!) You know what else I'll do sometimes? I'll take off all my clothes and pile a bunch of books all around me. I'll sit very still and pretend that I'm a book too, just sitting on a shelf with all my brethren. We watch and we wait, hoping that the next passer-by will select one of us. "Pick me! Pick me!" I'll shout. "I'm the best one! I'm a Victorian-era coming of age novel! I've got gorgeous imagery!" Until then, we remained locked in the eternal brotherhood of bookdom. We sit, frozen in time in a place between being and unbeing. Existing in a state of otherworldliness - unbroken by human interference. We contain oceans! We contain mountains! We offer you bliss and misery! We bring you worlds of pain and pestilence! We bring you unbounded hate! Crack our spines! Taste our fetid meat! Enter us! Penetrate us! Feast on our black souls!
I guess what I'm saying is, in this crazy messed-up world of ours, books are about the only things that keep me sane.
