Pocporn

the literature students

nights spent studying in the library, dozens of books piled on the desk before you

lingering in your favorite bookstore

debating with friends about your favorite authors

old books with faded bindings and handwritten notes in the margins

memorizing your favorite passages to recite back to yourself

overfilled bookshelves, volumes stacked on the floor by your bed

scribbling notes to yourself late at night, then trying to decipher them in the morning

beautiful handwriting scrawled across the page

worn out copies of your favorite books

wishing you could resurrect long-dead authors and poets

ribbon bookmarks tucked between pages

quotes by your favorite authors written on your walls

libraries with bookshelves that tower to the ceiling, books as far as the eye can see

carrying a book with you everywhere you go

fancy volumes with gilded edges

deep analysis, dissecting themes and diction and metaphor

leaning forward in your seat during class, eager to share your insights

researching your favorite authors, beginning to understand why they wrote how they did

handwritten copies of poems pinned up by your desk

the ache of finishing a particularly good book, knowing you’ll never read it for the first time again

annotating writing in your favorite pen