I seem to drown in piles of books, which I really should have got rid of a long time ago. I should have at least put them on shelves to keep them off the floor.
On my way to the kitchen I stumble upon some neatly stacked paperbacks.
I kick them, scattering pages all over the hallway. “Serves them good.”
That’s when I realize I’m drunk. I blame books for all my problems, including the bottle of liquor I’m polishing off now.
“I hate you!,” I yell, gripping the door frame.
Back in my bedroom, bottle still firmly in hand, I decide it’s time to change. I pull books from wherever I can find them; I lie on top of them, trying to crush them like they have crushed me.

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