“…they were unnamed tombstones in a graveyard infused with “old book smell.”

“I realized that each unread book was possibly (and likely) someone’s life’s work, their “magnum opus,” the greatest thing that they had ever done, the only thing that separated them from ignominious mediocrity. Yet that special thing, that book, that part of their soul expressed in ink and words, was now simply a waster of space, almost definitely to never be opened again unless by accident.”

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