Here is Oscar Wilde,
here is Kant,
here is Hitler in Mein Kampf,
here is Tolkien,
here is Tolstoy,
here is Sylvia Plath,
here is Sigmund Freud,
here is Winston Churchill, their brains at rest upon the racks,
and as the avid reader awaits,
ready to take them home and relax,
ready to devour their pages and their words with beady eyes by the fire dressed in coat and hat,
and not ready,
not ready to face the world or the rain,
but instead tea and a biscuit,
now, what could be better than that?

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