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We all start out innocently. One or two strays—orphans, really—you let them into your life. Maybe you keep them for your own enjoyment. Hidden. Maybe you gift them to the right person. Rarely, because of their condition, you sell them. But it never ends there. You’re always on the hunt. You lower your standards. Start accepting the ones with permanent markings, viewing these minor imperfections as desirable as you run your fingers along their forlorn spines. Sometimes they’re not even your type. It’s a grey area, but what isn’t? A line you straddle between collector and middleman. You always want more. A deep sacral desire drawing you to new, used, hard, soft… whatever remains. You’ll spend your last dime for more and you won’t raise an eyebrow at the ones others discard. Lost in the system. Not really even on the radar. Their value long overlooked by the newest “goods and services.” You care for them. In your own way. It’s a bit lewd. Some might say unhealthy. But these books need you.

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