This is what I feel like right now.
I feel like I am made of books. I feel like my skeleton is made of brittle book spines. I feel like a blur of faded gilt edges, smudged ink, a smattering of languages, illegible titles. My lungs are a catalogue of old-book smells inhaled during furtive night-time reading. I see words when I close my eyes.
More to follow. Promise.
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