The Book Purge continues apace. No one is safe in this State Of Terror. So far, thirteen boxes of books have been cast to the outer darkness, and beside me sit three more boxes. The books in those boxes no doubt tremble with that deep, existential horror at what awaits 'em. Such is the life of the reprobate.
To my bemusement, LA tells me that she can't tell the difference. It's as if ten books spring up to replace one that is taken. How am I to make progress in winnowing the chafe from the wheat if there is no visible remnant left behind after I have beaten the threshing floor? Will my book collection remain for all time a corpus mixtum, will I never be free from the tares that plague my people?
Let me tell you, sorting and selling books isn't as easy as it sounds.
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