There is a stack of books by the door, waiting to be given away. Among them are all the duplicates that Thewife and I discovered we had when our respective bookshelves merged over three years ago. I like having duplicates. I like the stories they propel, the oneness of literary tastebuds they quietly represent, and how serendipituous life used to be. But all the duplicates have been removed from the shelf and they now sit in a discard pile by the door. As soon as I'm not looking, they will all check out.
