what if all this time, when we thought we were picking out books to read-- it was really the books deciding that we were worthy of reading them? that they chose us?
I'm pretty sure there are a few books I've collected that were looking for me, the moments I met them were too peculiar and special to be happenstance And anyways, we all know I don't believe in coincidences, everything has a purpose and meaning-- we just don't know it all yet, and maybe never will. but there was a reason somewhere buried in the tapestry of life for each and every thing that happens.
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