The book knows that, just like humans, it's destined to be born and die alone. But it also knows (again, just like humans) that it would far prefer to be accompanied in the meantime.
The book trembles with anticipation when the poet finally places it in an envelope and heads for the post office, launching it on a journey to its reader, though that's nothing in comparison to the feeling of being held at last, its pages caressed and maybe even folded back if one or two of the poems really hit home...
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