I still couldn't read and for me you were giant puzzles, voluptuous furniture filled with books that fascinated me because of their colored spines, which I ordered and messed up like Lego bricks.
When I grabbed your books at random, climbed on a chair to reach the highest ones, I opened their covers with ceremony, aware that my hands were clean despite the snack of the snack, and touched his typed words, symbols that enclose promises, and they had some spell, mystery, magic.
More than once I repeated the ritual of fondling your guts, beloved shelves, and seize ...
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