Books. Voices without voices. Friends without arms. Faithful. Standing at the ready on a slanted shelf. Carriers of broad visions warming shivering hearts. Sowing intrepid meanings. Suffering of deteriorating spines, worn out pages, bent corners, stained paper but still dispensing, one sentence at a time, wisdom of other times, of other latitudes. Burnt but not silenced, out of print but lingering in loving minds. With a skipped heartbeat, we will miss you, and the odors you have gathered, when they throw you all in the precipice of modernity.