My life, like yours, I suspect, can feel like it has been ingeniously designed for the sole purpose of strangling serendipity.
It is a neighborhood stoop, or rather, the discarded books that gather there.
For you, maybe that translates into a bargain bin or a giveaway pile; wherever you can find books that are weathered, dog-eared and inscribed to someone else.
Why do I love other people’s books?
Found books, meanwhile, are blissfully dislocated from any hint of duty or “discourse.” They are deserted islands.
Persons:
serendipity, you’re