Books also dream

FROM THE SHELF, my bed, my home, I contemplate my colleagues made of coloured cellulose, some of them repeatedly caressed by hundreds of hands, whereas some others have never been touched yet. Days go by on a neverending string of silence between indirect sunlight, fluorescent and tungsten.

A new morning is comming and I strongly keep the dream that one reader is going to pay attention to me, will slide a finger over my spine, producing me the expected and desired tickling, before pulling me out from my solitude to finally lead me to an adventure of hustle and bustle, the arrival to a new shelf and the most great of the pleasures a book can feel: being read.

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