when the written word is almost your only (non ephemereal) passion, thats the easiest analogy that comes to mind. As a natural fallout of being an incurable book reader / buyer / collector / keeper (in the mark twain sense), before long you find yourself owning an unmanagably large colume of books. Which is a double edged problem.
like () said, you never know how real the character in a book are, till you have lived in one urself. i have lived in books probably more years than in the outised world, since when i learnt to read my first (). when you read a lot or love what you read very much, for a long time, after a while the boundaries between the real world and your world of fiction dims and fades and then glimmers in the distance. Not just while you are reading but at all times. Thus might I wake one morning with a vague uneasiness of missing someone close and worry at it like a itch you cant reach to scratch, till it suddenly dawns upon me ... its pip & beth, or for some weird reason ... mini's dad, or jane, or wyanan, or mole (mole, i often miss)
1 - cant find the one u want 2 read
2 - cant keep / carry
3 not worth
have to part with
library // casual friends // come and go
read forget - keep always - keep at home
glad of having read but will never read again
will never buy but will read again and again
will buy but never read
love to talk about - will never discuss // dominiques statue
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