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Reading books feels so strange. They're by no one, people who don't exist. They are a remnant of what used to be, and yet I don't hate them.
Books are by people who still speak, even after going out of existence. Those people are so unlike me, who exists but never speaks.
My companion doesn't like books. They never read when I do, and they seem restless whenever I pick one up for long. Maybe they're bored. Maybe they wish I would focus on them instead.
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