These literary works

The smell of books
So comforting, a brand new car
Cracked spine, so fresh
So breathable, knowledge in a form so palpable
Words so strung together as if they were a random line of words
That took 1600 years to come about
Infinite monkeys on infinite typewriters hitting the keys
800 times a second in hopes we might have sonnets, we might have psalms and yes,
Books as beautifully random as these.
I dare not ask who hates their smell, their texture, ink, they’re fresh cut pages, their hardcovered beauty.
I dare not ask who hates what they might stand for. For freedom, for knowledge, for courage and strength
I dare not ask in fear I’ll hear a great regress of moans so far the craters of Saturn’s moons might crumble.
I dare not wonder whose young girls troubles are more important than the sound of 500 pages turning
More important than the imaginary friendships that you form with characters whose lives remain unlived through tales of fiction as tall as sky scrapers
Whose drama is shallower than the depths of seas that captain Ahab sailed
More unsettling than the heartbeat beneath the floorboards
Shakespeare had no fear
Edgar Allen Gun Show
Orwell he was legendary
Ms. Austen we can’t compare to thee
So tell me, are your words, the ones you spew more literary works of art?
I dare not hear your answer
Infect me like a cancer, books
Pick one up, our generations fucked.