text: His finger slipped under the upper right corner--ready to turn the page--even though his eyes had only met the third line of text. He wasn’t really paying attention to the words on the page but rather getting to the next line. The next line. The next line. The next page. He flipped the page he was holding with one fluid motion and began on the next word. In eagerness he grabbed the upper right corner of the page he had not even began looking at. The hot and sweaty fingertips were holding onto the corner of the page so hard it was creating an indentation in the paper. An ovular spot the size of his thumb where he had been holding was visible so much so that he noticed the error in his ways when he reached the first line on that page and his thumb was in his line of sight. “Shit,” he mumbled to himself. He released his thumb to examine the damage. He went over it a few times, forcefully, to smooth out the damage. When his impatient thumb slid over the corner for the last time, the mark was still there. He had damaged the book. It was impossible now to return the book to the bookstore and get a full refund. The paranoia set in. They would know as soon as they saw the book that he had used it so much the spine of the book was practically falling apart. No use wasting gas on driving to the bookstore to even attempt a refund. A waste. That is what he thought of himself as he got up and placed the book he was holding--holding like a dying cat being carried to the vet--on the stack of books. Ten, no, fifteen books in this stack all with the receipts sticking out of the top. Receipts placed on the damaged page and shut forever; almost like a tombstone to remember the book he had killed. The stack next to it was far too high to become the final resting place of this one. The stack behind it was also too high, and so was the one on the floor next to it. The bookshelves were all full of christened books as well. He was reduced to making stacks on tables and the floor in front of the bookcases; he could not even see all of his failures without having to move the others. He regressed to the velvet love seat in the center of his makeshift library to start a new book. Not one of the hundreds of books in his possession were finished because he felt he would only further damage them if he continued reading. There was no point. The book was past the point of return and was no longer pristine enough to read. He opened the next book and put the receipt next to him on the couch. Maybe he would be able to return this one.