I have written about you before, though your shape was very different. Your eyes were other colors and your hands held varied interests. But if we are composed of stories, then yours is one that has already been told to me. The boy dressed up in his father’s clothes— feigning maturity, when he’s not yet fully grown. And all the bright-eyed beauties, rushing to the rescue— praising what you’ve given, before knowing your intentions.
But like every other season, I’ve grown tired of the books I’m reading. I’ve learned my lessons and now it’s time to build a new collection.
Besides, I’ve heard it’s beneficial to take interest in non-fiction.