Thousands of old and new books lie in the shelves around me.
Some have been around for two decades and others a whole century plus more.
Not all are read. Some are just dust collectors written by authors that fade away as time evolves.
The pages are ripped and yellow with a smell of death.
Untouched for years and in the shadows of the other books.
The previous owner is either dead or ancient.
The book holds more history than a man who fought at Pearl Harbor.
Through the hands of many and scanned by many eyes.
History is in front of us, in the books, in the shadows, awaiting us to come by.
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