I haven’t read half the books on my shelves. Besides hefty catalogues and library borrows, read books, if loved, get gifted on. Only the unread linger. My bookshelf doesn’t collect acquired knowledge, only failed intention and impulsive, unconsummated desire. While I tinkle ice and whiskey into glasses in the kitchen, dates cruise my shelves, trying to design who I am by the culture I consume, silently deciding if I deserve the mercy of their affections. Early and iconically, knitting in…
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