It started almost by accident, rising out of the rubble of my room.
These tokens of my ambition accumulate, some with a bookmark slid between their brittle layers; marking my intentions, my milestones and my aborted adventures.
Some I will go back to and some I may never wet their last page with the spittle of my finger and thumb. They are destined to be unfulfilled.
There are several books I have managed to read once and perhaps I would like to read them again. I hear second and subsequent readings lend even more detail to the darting eye and pensive mind. However, there are just too many new pieces to be read.
All too often I browse online-bookshops, picking out treats and classics, recommendations and appetising synopses. I have often found myself drifting into shops, picking and flicking and procuring right there.
There is great pleasure in buying a book, reading the synopsis and sometimes brushing to the last page looking for spoilers or clues and being left puzzled.
There are just too many good books left to read. Which I suppose is a good complaint to have.
But if I hope to make a dent in them, I should probably start with that leaning tower in my room. Certainly before it topples over.
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