From the book of decompositions
Of late, the book I am reading has been turning feral. This morning it wasn’t in the place where I had put it down last night. I found it growling in a corner of the shed. It had made what I can only describe as a disgusting mess on the floor. I took it inside and put it on the table underneath a heavy Shakespeare complete plays, but when I came back to it after making myself a coffee it had somehow extrapolated itself from this entomement and was merrily knocking stuff off the mantlepiece. My glasses were on the floor covered with soil from an upturned aloe. I think I might take it back to the charity shop where I bought it and let some other sucker have the fun that ownership of a rogue volume entails. Or I might slip a photograph of an acquaintance between the pages and inform them that they are in my bad books.
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