There is something pitiable about books on sale. The brashness of neon stickers making everything - jewels and rabble alike - of the same worth. I wonder that were books able to cry, would they be bleeding now? Would they be leaking ink from creaking spines, saddened by their fall from graceful shelves into cardboard bargain boxes, anxious about their futures? When once upon a time, a girl may have smoothed her hands over a book cover, hoping to own it, longing for the money she doesn’t have. When once upon a time, this book might have been a special treat to save up for, something to look forward to, something to smile about on the train ride home. When it was one of the many beating hearts in the complication of bookstore anatomy. The life and soul of it; a desire. It is now something that its flesh and bones cannot wait to be rid of. I am finally starting to understand the pledge to read the written word; it does not stem from the fear of becoming obsolete. It is the fear of forgetting.