I know I have a problem.
Everyone knows I have a problem.
It’s kind of hard to hide.
The moment you step inside my house, it’s obvious. The books are everywhere. They don’t confine themselves to the bookshelves. I suppose that would be impossible since the shelves are packed tighter than Depression Era tenements. There are piles of books on my desk, my daughter’s desk, the bedside table, the kitchen table, the dining room table, and the lamp table in the living room. Pretty much any flat surface in the house is game, including the floor.
The floor is where my latest arrivals are currently huddled – a half dozen paperback volumes of varying size and genre. When I got them home yesterday I realized that there wasn’t anywhere to put them. I stood in the middle of my house, cradling my finds in the crook of my arm while…
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