The bookshelf

For the past few years he had bought, read, and collected books. The genre was irrelevant, anything that seemed interesting was paid for, consumed, and placed carefully on the bookshelf.

He spent a lot of time sorting his bookshelf. The order, alphabetical, was clear, but by now he had acquired so many books that he was filling the second row; the shelves were positively overflowing.

At times it felt like he spent as much time sorting and arranging as he did reading. This was symptomatic of something, although he couldn’t quite tell what it meant.

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