A cluster of pages organized and filed; strewn together and bound by ideas. Books are what I hold dear to me, though many would rather read on a tiny screen. The light blinding them; making them ignorant. I doubt they’ve ever opened a book, and really saw what was behind the cover.

I’m greeted by the familiar scent of a new book. The pages moving swiftly under my fingers, making a dance I welcome time and time again. The letters, a seemingly cacophony of nonsense, weaved into a euphemism fit for a king.

The book is an entire universe, nicely bound and waiting for us to explore. Different lands, people, stories, all different; and we’re there to interpret them.