A bug, rather, a very small insect, lands on the 84th page of the book I'm reading. It's black, and its three eyes, if they ARE eyes, look like black furballs. When I try to blow it away, it resists, choosing to stay on that page. I don't want to squish it on purpose. Maybe it likes to read too. Maybe it's savoring the smell of the paper, like I do, especially the brand new ones.
I see these bugs all the time, squashed between a book, dead. A bookbug. I wonder if it loves books so much, that to it, to die within a book, its last sight those of words, is a glorious way to die.