"These rocks, he thought, are here for me;"

None of these pages are the same. They're not even in the same book. That's funny to me, because when we talked I was under the impression that all these people had my books. I thought I had theirs as well. I thought we had weekly discussions about our favorite characters and chapters and lines.

It turns out they burned them for warmth while they were waiting for something that was never coming in the first place. They burned them and now it's just ash in my fireplace. I don't like ash in my fireplace. I like my fireplace clean and empty. I don't like it filled with ash. Especially not the ash of my favorite books.

Maybe, they're not my favorites anymore. Maybe, they never were. Maybe, they were just books I picked up for half off in the self-help section. Maybe my favorites are really The Alligator and The Coyote and The Zoo. And you know what? Probably, The Antelope as well. I like those ones, and I always have. Maybe those are my real favorites. And maybe no one else has those, but it honestly doesn't even matter.

I hope that ash stays in my fireplace forever. I hope it sits there and watches me read my real favorites. I hope it stays that terribly boring shade of black. I hope no one notices it; not even when the wind picks up and it blows all over the rug. Not even then. Not even ever.

Ash isn't worth my time, and it most definitely isn't worth yours.