Reaching the end of the chapter I decide it's time for me to leave the room.
I turn the book over. It's pre-owned and has an old yellowing sticker on its rear. Far broader than it is tall, I peel the sticker off.
As one does, I roll it up between my thumb and forefinger along its longest edge. I do it slightly off-axis to form a spiraling cone that tapers at the end. It looks a little like a rifle bullet in its casing.
I am the only person who will ever see this spiral.
This spiral is made from paper. That paper is from a tree that died.
The glue is partially formed from rubber, from oil, from long-dead creatures.
Endless lives have now culminated into this minuscule new form that I have constructed as a simple, passing enjoyment.
I am the only person who will ever see it.
I consider putting it in the trash. Its life has been lived and is now done.
But I don't.
I keep it.
It is mine alone.