For what was it about books that once finished left the reader in a bit of a haze and made them reread the last few sentences in order to continue the ringing in their hearts a while longer, so as not to let the silence illumine the fact that reading, they had gained something – distance, a lesson, a companion, a new world – but now, after the last full stop, they had lost something palpable and felt a little emptier than before.

O’ melancholy,hectic chill for human soul,herewith dismal presence,any spirit does descent.

I don’t know how these things died without benefit of a bullet to the brain pan. They seemed to exist in an eternal twilight of longing.

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