There existed a book. A book with printed words in neat, black letters. A paperback book still in good condition, yet unbought. This paperback novel sits with it's fellow clones waiting, waiting. For that one day, when a man, woman, sister, brother, father, son, mother, daughter, or child to pick up it's neatly printed black words and carry it away to home. When warm hands can hold the book and be passed on to another paid of hands. When it stands beside with it's other colored brethern in a libary of any size.
When the book itself, becomes more important then the words inside.
When the book itself, becomes more important then the words inside.
