Our old library in town never held much attraction for me. In fact, my only solid memory involved my first fistfight, which was thankfully uneventful and quickly broken up by the town librarian. However, I recently had a dream concerning that storied building in Cobleskill. It was a stormy day, and with little else to do, I entered through the tall, glass doors and began perusing the bookshelves. As I ran my fingers down a roll of hardcovers, I spotted a volume with my name as the title. I began reading, and to my surprise, found that it contained the story of my life beginning at birth. I quickly turned the pages to see if the author had included everything, and to my chagrin, discovered nothing had been left out. I carefully concealed the book by my side and walked quietly toward the librarian, who was seated at a large wooden desk. There she lay in wait, peering over her horned-rim glasses which were eternally hooked to her neck with a gold chain. With judgement and a bit of delight in her eyes, she informed me that the book could not be checked out as it was not yet complete. My heart raced and my breath quickened as I turned to the back of the book to find empty pages. I placed the novel back on the shelf only to return a month later. Pulling down the volume, I discovered it had increased in wordcount. Confused, I turned to the opening page to see who cared enough to write my life's story in such detail and for all to read. To my surprise, the author was none other than God himself. I awoke, and after contemplating the gravity of life, decided to write a book.
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