For some reason, I have this huge... urge... to talk about how I almost died under a big mountain of my books. What the hell? This... this is probably a curse, isn't it? Or maybe I'm just dying of loneliness. Fuck.Back then, I was living alone, of course! Shelves were functional and all, but for a bachelor living in a bachelor's apartment, they
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Were you hurt?
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....You read picture books? Fitting.
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And you know that because you read them, huh?
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I'm minoring in literature, you bastard.
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I wonder why that is?
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