There’s something about seeing a book that once touched you, holding the weight of it in your hand, marveling at the illustrations anew, carrying it for a little while, to put it back in its place and return it where you found it. Some books are like birds: given their freedom, they have more chance to touch other lives than if I were to buy it and keep it for myself to have. Some memories lose their luster when written down; it’s more worth it knowing in the heart.


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