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I lose my restraint near books.

When I moved last March, I brought my kiddie bookshelves with me. The only size I have space for in my room. They were half empty, then, because I moved some of my books back into my old room at my mom's place. The shelves are full again.

I try to be discriminate when I shop for books, but get carried away by smells, long forgotten childrens' classics, favorites I take out from the library often.

I like books that smell old, like stale cigars. I like yellowed pages. I don't mind water crinkled books. Personal notes in the flyleaf; scrawling, illegible script. I love the lived in looks these books acquire, a silent history evident in their imperfections.

These are where I get my books: