For I have books to read and stories to tell. I know not when I will be done and able to slumber. I know only that these things will not take wing and fly by themselves. They must be given freedom, outfitted with wings made of words and syllables and noises from outside the ring of light. Then those tales and legends and books that were read flap away unsteadily, looking for the next eager pair of eyes and ears that they can come to for rest.


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