I might not love to read—okay, fine, I hate it—but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find an odd comfort in the smell of a book. Maybe some of it is because of the familiarity of it, but nothing calms my frazzled nerves more than taking inventory back here. The weight and feel of a book in my hand, the crisp pages beneath my fingertips, the bright and colorful covers that are all so similar, yet so different. It’s almost hypnotizing.
