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I hid in words of safety
against a neutral sky of desperate longing
my fingers clinging in their way
to dusty pages
and slick, formless covers
my eyes suffused and overflowing
with thoughts of endless universes
of fonts and types and the effortless comfort
of pulp pages strewn
with questions
my fingers pulling, spreading, opening, exploring
the silent whispers
the pages tugging at my attentions
calling me homeward
into the depths of their recorded imaginations
the libraries of my soul
reflected in the shelves of this room
and the empty fullness
of this hollow ringing in my ears.
It rushes home, this certainty,
the cover thumps closed.
The End.

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