As I take a look at the book on the dusted end table.  The pages hugging like too many people in a subway going too many places all with the same stop. The cover being the perfect misrepresentation of its contents. Comfortablely controlling the chaos that lays upon its tree filled inters. Words have been violently thrashed on to each page. Filled with names, verbs, destinations all of which were unexpected and uninvited.

I cradle this book into my dry palms. Run my imperfect fingertip across the spine with a chill. Pry back the very protective cover created to keep strangers from entering it's home. My eyes cast over the detailed words implanted on the inner walls. Absorbing each and every miniscule idea from the stationary knowledge upon each page.

Days pass as the final page has arrived. The book is placed back on the end table. Lonely and longing. We are far too similar me and this book. We both share a cover used to show too many people too little about the brilliance we hold. Too many people have passed us up without giving a second thought. There have been words typed into my brain stem without me asking for them to be put there. Every single person that explores us will find different knowledge