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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It's true.
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It's just my love of books, dammit. What's so wrong with that?
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What are you? A kid...?
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What kind of story, anyway?
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