I prop the library book on my face like a tent. I know the pages are musty and have been touched by who the hell knows how many hands that have been who the fuck knows where. I really don’t care. Let the filth of countless fingers caress my skin. I’ll wash my face later. Right now I’ve got talking to do.
I whisper into the musty pages everything I don’t want to write or say. And imagine that the next person who checks this book out will hear me when he gets to the pages that touched my face.