There remain a collection of words on my shelf, gathered over many years and, mostly, about people and adventures that I’ll only ever know through their grey, compact, bound and circumscribed pages.
Some remind me of my younger, more impetuous days. Days when in my haste I’d rush to claim them all – if only to set them down, unread, in some conspicuous place for the world to see (and to be impressed).
Others are from more recent years, deliberately chosen, well worn, twice read, hidden away.
Sages sharing some of the world’s most esoteric secrets, or poets peeling away yet another layer of our undeniably compromised, adulterated, alienated ways