The
smell of old, yellowing pages.
Rows upon rows, shelves upon shelves,
Stacked so high that the top cannot be seen.
Thousands of worlds waiting to be discovered.
Hundreds of thousands of pages waiting to be turned.
Millions of little words just
waiting to be read.
Black ink, white paper, bounded in leather.
They are simply an escape, an adventure.
All you need to do is pick one and read.
