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I was sitting on the plane as it taxied into the terminal yesterday, fanning my pbook (Saul Bellow's Collected Stories) with my thumb, and a small cloud of that light, dry, slightly vinegary odour of modern paper hit the back of my nose, and I inhaled it deeply, thought of the billy bookcases at home weighted with all the books I've read and loved, and I smiled, happy to be coming home.
It's not a problem though. I can stop any time I want.
Cheers,
Marc
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