Me reading a book :D:D:D:D

Closing the book, I find I have left my head inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound, words adjusting themselves to their meaning. Long passages open at successive pages. An echo, continuous from the title onward, hums behind me.

From in here, the world looms, a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences carved out when an author traveled and a reader dept the way open. When this book ends I will pull it inside out like a sock and throw it back in the library. But the rumor of it will haunt all that follows in my life…

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