It grows higher everyday. The stack of words, friends, magic to be delved into whenever she chooses. Like an addiction. There’s not a lot of room left now, between the teetering piles of musty old relics, rescued from basements and park benches, concert halls and waiting rooms. But what can she do? To leave one behind would be sacrilege. They whisper their sweet stories to her as she passes by and she knows that as she sleeps curled between the pages, she will drift gently to new lands and new loves on their paper wings.  She is only to give them a home.

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