“Why is he talking like that, honey?” asked Billy. “He’s lit. Too much Dickens and Dostoevsky and all that other trash.” Billy looked at the object. It was around eight inches by five and maybe one inch thick. It looked worn and old and the surface was covered with colors that would once have been garish. It had smelled of dust and there was writing on it but it was upside down to Billy.
Bringing a new context to so thing we all interact with is always a win. Books about books are good books (but not quite in an overly intertextual sence)
