Nine Hundred Books (bp coyle)

I have read nine hundred books.  Yes, I have.  Cover to cover.

I have them in my bookcases, on my mantelpiece, my shelves, my dining table, in piles beside my tv, inside my wardrobe, under my bed.

I can recall where I bought each one, what I paid for it if it was raining outside or not that day.

I can recall what happened on page fifteen of any of them.  Or page sixty-five, four hundred and seven.

I own each and every one.  Of course.  Not for me a trip to the local library.   No siree.

I have completed each of them and not once cracked a spine.  I use bookmarks, I would not dream of folding a page to mark my place.

A few are hardback, but most are paperback, alas.  The cost you understand?

There’s little left over for food each week.

I do not have any friends (even Facebook ones), any followers on Twitter, anyone to say good morning to, to send me a Christmas card.

I really don’t have time for that sort of thing.

I have only read nine hundred books and there are so many, many more to read.

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