I take in long drafts of the familiar smell,
Paper and fresh print.
Hear the crack of the paperback's spine.
Feel the texture,
Of not quite smooth paper,
Beneath my resting hand.
The grease of my fingers,
Provide just enough friction to turn a page.
Everything is crisp and new.
Unspoiled, untainted.
I love the entirety of this sensual, tactile experience.
The opening of a new book
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