I owe an apology to all the books in this house. Both fiction and fact, hardback and soft. You sit on shelves gathering dust, arranged as random as random can be: some of you are in good nick, but then some are marked with notes in pen, others whose paper is growing yellow, and still more whose binds are deteriorating. But I still love the paper you are printed on, I still love your bind, and your spine too, even if you do occupy each room of this house, with a binding presence that overwhelms me, with the task of trying to arrange order, an unfinished task that I have taken to by cataloguing your titles, authors and for some, publisher too. Now and then I think about the space to be saved without you. For that I am sorry. I often find myself at the library looking for new material, another form of neglect, I am afraid. So what will become of you my friends? I still have no answer, but I have a feeling you may outlive me. Long live the book!
<a href=”http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/wronged-objects/”>Wronged Objects</a>