The book, like all well-written things,

"The book, like all well-written things, has been badly read.
That is its tragedy, tragedy that has been bestowed upon
Itself." And he turned the book in his hands. The book talked
something like this. And the man was someone I thought I
might like to know. Sick of your insane demands! His glasses
steamed up and I couldn't sit anymore. His books, he had ladders
and ladders of books upon table tops and littered to his feet.
And my book lay firmly in his hand and I was sure I could close
My eyes and if I were to open them, my book would litter his
Floor. His wardrobe was open, his shoelaces by his books were
undone, beautifully so, I admired my surroundings and every book was in
It's place. It is all fashionably ill written, I believe that is good.