September 25, 2016
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I never truly lived inside myself.
I rested between the pages of books.
I glided in the fall of a plot.
I stretched across the space between words.
I curled in the welcoming arms of letters.
I laid bare on a page of parchment.
I napped in the drop of ink marking the page.
I’ve walked the walls of stories.
I buried myself between leather coverings.
I never truly lived inside myself,
but I lived the life of thousands.

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