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The books smell of old dusty paper
Or new printing ink
And I stack them on my shelf with care
None on the floor
Each has thier own place
On the shelves and in my mind.
I have read them all
Listened to thier stories echo in my head
And let them whisper through my dreams
I long to have my own place among my shelves
To have others remember my charecters as I remember these
So I murmur to myself at night
My stories not yet written





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