I'm pretty sure that 50 years from now they will find my body buried beneath a stack of books, smothered by the weight of the pages and the memories of the stories they tell.
Today I woke up and rolled over only to get a paper cut on the book laying on the pillow next to mine. And below the pillow were two more books.
The offending book that lashed out at me was Lighthousekeeping. I just finished it, my nose still stinging from the book's shallow bite. But I did enjoy it so hopefully I'm forgiven for rudely crushing it with my a.m. stretches.
The next two books waiting to attack are Deja Dead and Confederates in the Attic. I only hope they are gentle with me and do not ambush me in my sleep.
It is too late to stop sleeping with books in my bed. They are like midnight surprises. Visitors have to fight for their own space. For God's sake, my bed side lamp sits on Childcraft encyclopedias!
I never want to answer "a magazine" to the question "What was the last thing you read?"
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