Books, pages that smell fresh and new, old and dusty. Lines of type that miraculously turn into conversations, descriptions, words of love and fear. Where shall I go today ? To France with Joanne ? On a train with Agatha ? On a moor with Emily ? Or flying through the air with Mary ?
Invisible to others I sit mesmerised by the words that lift off the page and make pictures in my mind, only to vanish with the slap of the the cover shutting.