My small library started to be,
precisely
too small.
books are gradually spreading into the room,
occupying their dusty place.
piled one on top form irregular stacks
and shaky that it is better not to touch.
and order, the only one I conceive,
that of books,
flakes
and so I find myself having to walk on tiptoe
not collapse on me this paper weight .
Basically I'm not complaining
given my attachment, my bookish
fetishism the paper and its chemical smell,
oh yes, the smell of old paper that reminds me that of the vanilla,
smell of fresh ink printing
smell of congealed glue and thought. And I
always surprised the false inertia that has it all,
of matter that make up
and the secret that holds within it.
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