Paper.

Every time I get a new book I get a rush that I’m sure is equivalent to that of a drug user using his favorite brand of marijuana. First my stomach flips and somersaults as the little man sticks my little book into the little velvet bag found only at the bookstore on the corner of Radley St. and Merriweather Blvd. under the black rod-iron lamppost that has been there since the town was built. The next step in my reaction is the flutter of my heart as I open it and for the first time ever I crack the binding. The thrill of cracking the binding is a sensation that reminds me only of the thrill of living because it reassures me that this book has never been read by anyone else and that this copy was purely made to satisfy my craving for knowledge and addiction to reading. But above all of these sensations is the reaction that happens when I get a whiff of the brand new clean and crisp pages. My mind completely leaves my body and is absorbed solely by the scent of neatly cut paper pressed cleanly by a printer machine with ink mingling with the scent of the weathered leather chair that I always sit in while unwrapping my newest purchase. This clean crisp and wonderful paper is the drug that I would not survive without.