I love seeing them stacked into enticing piles, spines luring me in.
I love feeling the heft of books, of leafing through them, the sound of pages ... worlds... thoughts... dreams... whooshing by.
I love fingering raised print, indented print, smelling old paper and moldy bindings.
I love how they can take me away. And jolt me into the present.
I love how they can be art.
I love how they can be repurposed into carriers and secret holders of things.
I love how they can be added to and reduced.
I love books.
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Concealed Within – Destroying Identity by Linda Welch |
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| Inga Hunter - Unwilling Journey |
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| If She Thought It Would Help... Jody Alexander |
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| Love Poem . Jo Stealey |