A book is a relic of time. The time it was written. The time it molded on the shelf, waiting to be read. The time you choose to read it. The time it takes to finish and the time it stays with you. Some are brief windows, purchased and consumed like paper in flame. Some slow time and move like slow motion fabric filmed in a Santa Anna wild storm when the very air chaps your lips.
The library book with a big greasy stain on its canvas cover calls to me and I am swallowed whole.