I’d never really liked second hand books. Sure they’re pretty to look at or place strategic on your shelf as decor… but they’re used, written all over by the hands and hearts of others opinions. Pages missing, ripped and stories even left incomplete.

Or maybe…

that old smell and soft pages are part of something beautiful. Weathered the weight of hands and hearts of others input, brilliant or unconcerned. Pages missing, perhaps even ripped and yet…

there it sits pretty, even worthy, with a story to be told.