The books stand shoulder to shoulder on the shelves, presenting their proud, titled faces to the world. I know where each of them are, hundreds of them, not memorized in regiment, but lovingly known and noted every time I look at them.
I remember the University library when I was in school, how I would haunt the stacks, scouring esoteric volumes and despairing of ever finding God, how the words all seemed to dry up and die on the page on those old books written by men and women who tried to think God instead of drinking Him in.
My books nourish me, they have been harvested with care, and the words in them love me, too.
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