The smell of old books is the aroma of time bound by ink and paper. Its intoxicating scent wafts on the currents of air like a beacon calling a mate to come investigate its titillating pleasures. The delicate pages are enveloped within a cocoon of discovery waiting for fingers to caress the inner sanctum of its prose and poetry. Words flowing, tumbling excitedly from its body like a virgin maiden’s bosom released from their confines. A solitary traveler becomes one with the book, tasting and devouring the genius time could not destroy. Flesh touching paper, transported away, delving into the fragile wording, pulled along by the siren song of mystery, adventure, love, and new worlds opening up with each turn of the page.
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