I’ve waited long enough, it’s been thirty years now. Don’t you think it’s time? To return my books? I entrusted them to you, and they are cherished items all. I told you that, do you recall? Before I left town. Return my books now! By any means at your disposal. The acrid whiff of each, the fliffft of their pages, the nicks and the tears. I love them for what they are. Their absence is a hole in me, but you would not know that, presumably. Or else, they would have been back on my shelf by now, for my eyes to linger over, reminding me who I am.
