I am not myself without my massive
collection, a tremendous selection
of history’s best books, as well as ones
that simply got me hooked, taught me how to
look at life differently, see the trees
not for the forest, but for the ink and
ideas that will one day be printed
within. I’ve felled a forest for my mind,
which in many respects is unkind, but
I’ve let it better me (allegedly),
and perhaps this devastation’s only
temporary, this century or so
of mahogany shelves as projections
of self so soon usurped digitally.

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