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It is the smell of a million mould-blossomed pages, of a thousand decaying bindings, of a universe of dead words.
Words are capable of flying. They dart through windows, over fences, between bar stools and across courtyards. They travel rapidly from mouth to ear, from ear to mouth. And as they go, they pick up speed and weight and substance and gravity. Until they land with a scud, take seed and grow as fast as the unruliest of beanstalks.
She breathed in age and swallowed decay.
