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There is nothing quite as uniquely satisfying as a good book. A book of the soul, writing that just clicks with some inherent voice in your head. You won’t find me talking about authors’ love sonnets and classics, reciting flowing language that sags and droops like the lost, loose skin that falls in defeat when it’s shed the fat and the filling beneath it.

Perhaps it is enough to say that I like the words and the way the words string together a lullaby, reminding me there are kindred spirits in the world.