In my house (The Big Pink Pile O' Stucco) there is a little room. It has no door-- it is more of an alcove off the front room. When I saw it, I knew its purpose. Grumpy got to work with the wood and the saw and so forth, time marched on, and the little room became our library. Every time I go in there, I feel good.
I lie. I do not feel "good." I feel touched by God.
It is the place where The Books live. Can I possibly make you understand how happy this little room makes me? I sit on the little loveseat with the cheesy purple velvet slipcover and I stare at my precious paper babies. Sometimes, a teeny bit of drool falls from my lips onto the book that I hold in my blessed hands.
Books. Beautiful collections of words.
I want to kiss them. I want to eat them.
Okay. I guess I know who is going to be sitting alone at lunch tomorrow. I don't care. I have books.
I'm sorry.
(Not really.)
I can't help it.
They are so beautiful!
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