Am reading a book; an actual physical book. It has a cover
and pages made of paper covered with words printed in actual
ink. It only does one thing and that is be a book and tell a story.
I hold it close to my face and flick through the pages quickly, as I
have always done. I smell the smell that so thrilled me as a child -
the combined scents of paper and ink; the smell of the bookstore at the
smallish mall that I could walk to from my childhood home. It is the smell of many happy hours to come. It smells