A sacrifice of words, a turning away of phrase

I am a devourer of stories, a devourer of worlds.  I swallow books whole, gluttonous.  As I snake I am, but rarely do I rest to digest what I’ve just consumed.  Not a lover of tales am I, but a ravisher.  I do not savor the nuances, the subtle flavor of style.  No, I delve deep into the marrow and suck it dry.  My attention engrossed so thoroughly that aches and pains and disappointments cease to matter, but the last page turned leaves me with no sympathy.  Once complete the fantasy matters not.  Like an addict I grasp for another collection of sentences.  Whether they be short or long is inconsequential as long as I’ve another life to live. Oh, I may at times keep a book close to me, placing its looted pages on a shelf for a later day or another year, but it oft means naught to me but a sure means of escape.  Hand me a treasure, a delight of many pages and for a few hours I will exist wholly between those covers, whetting my teeth and slacking my appetite. But, Oh!  It is never enough.  Grand epics, little vignettes, they never truly satisfy.  So like I beast I am, prowling cases, stalking floors.  Never satisfied, never mollified, I am the walker between the rows.  Slyly I may leave with a bag of morsels over my shoulder, but I know I’ll be back soon enough to unceremoniously replace picked-over spines with some new delicacy, some new distraction.

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