I don't feel sorry for myself, Beck. Lots of people have shitty parents and roaches in the cabinets and stale, raw Pop-Tarts for dinner and a TV that barely works and a dad who doesn't care when his son doesn't come home during a national disaster. The thing is, I'm lucky. I had the bookstore.

In the cage, you feel loved, not trapped. Just like me.

I fold my hands under my head and tell the books all about you. They listen, Beck. I know it sounds crazy, but they do.