There was a period of two years in the ’90s when I moved pretty constantly between sublets here in New York. I put my books in storage so I wouldn’t have to move them every few months. When I missed them, I would go to my storage space and visit them. It felt a little like they were in jail, though it was me who’d done something wrong—I hadn’t found them a permanent home. Soon I found myself in used bookstores, buying what I called “reading copies” of favorites.I only recently pulled my books out of storage after 2+ years in storage. Of all the things I had in storage, my books were what I missed most. Not just because I couldn't read them, but because for over two decades they'd always been (literally) around me. Always there, always comforting. I missed that like hell, and I'm glad we're back together.
Now maybe it'd be nice to share them with somebody.