I held this book, a good book, not a particularly great or important book, and I realized that I can never be with someone who does not understand their importance, truly happily I should say. Not necessarily someone that likes to read or is into literature, but someone that deep inside realizes that the binding and the ink on the pages are an important thing, capable of unimaginable things: Of torture, of understanding, of mimicry, of changing the world. Now I know this sounds stupid, and maybe it's the late night talking but a book is important. Not necessarily all books, but a particular book is a big deal to someone somewhere. I know i'm not the only one.
[poetry escapes me and all the pretty syrupy sentences i used to come up with. I do not know where they have gone…all those scattered letters that made the words i loved so much.] They've gone and left a lower case of me.
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