Old books trace my bottom bookshelf, crookedly aligned with one another. There's three shelves total, but only one is full of books at the present time. Coins are of few with me, in which my ability to collect such treasured items is minimal. But I make investments when ever extra tokens find their way to my bank. Reads on magick, history, plants, and worldly cultures. Childrens classics like Whinnie the Pooh and Anne of Green Gables. The energy they create just by being is unimaginably beautiful. And the wonder they infuse into my mind is mental perfection. The crisp fragil touch of old paper scarred with fingerprints of past owners. The book itself tells a story of readers before me, who all share with me the same exact tale in the same exact words. A fascinating thought. Every interpretation, every emotional pass of each page, how can one not be intrigued by the antique inspiration of faded papers binded in a torn cover?
