Perusing the books on the new stall was a ruse - the stall setup was captivating and the stallholder had a bland but dignified dishevelment that intrigued. The space she had appropriated had never been used before - away from the popular deep shaded arbour - but on a busy access point beneath a leafy outreached bough. It was if the massive fig had
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The smell of old books are as irressistable as worn leather jackets. Only with wine and skin should they be covered. In my bedroom many years ago, the bookshelf pulled out to reveal a small room. They used to hide escaping slaves there, and at night I listened to the singing.Have you read "House of Leaves"?
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It was a delicate union, at the minor notes, the pages became unglued from their firmaments, and at a word, the singing stopped. If it's no consolation to you, our psrticles are probably in communication with theirs, anyway...don't let the sleepers conceal the precious marks! Just think of the tragedy of all the buried speech, and please tell me more about the resentment. The book is quite interesting. I won't spoil it..
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