If this is being alone, it doesn’t feel like it. The cabin seems more crowded every day. Every opened book spills out new companions in the full flush of their lives and eager to fill the silence. They slap an arm around your shoulder and draw you with them as if they’ve waited hundreds of years for the chance, and maybe they have. Not that joining them is always easy, because a book here, held in the circle of light from a single LED lamp, doesn’t hold still. It moves as if alive, and following the print with your eyes is like straining to hear a conversation in a noisy room. But even that
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