Books are a disease, they spread from mind to mind, by wind, by electrons, by light. Books are alive, they seem dead but actually they’re only dormant, like antient bacteria siting on a dusty shelf. The original host most probably died, and the book is all that remains of this antient man or woman, the writing has no markings of a name.

This disease, this book, is transmitted by touch, as soon as a new host comes in contact with this dusty book and spends some time, its grasp grows stronger. The symptoms are too evident, they start to think, they start to question and to wander, they see connections and disturb the ones that are not sick. This book infested people start and try to spread this book disease by talking to the healthy and promising them ideas, minds of their own.

Who knew that markings on a paper can encode this sickness, that it can be transmitted by every medium known to man, this disease has spread from the antient time, exponentially. We live now in the world where books are everywhere and the chance of infection is at is peak, I reckon that by the time you would have read this you are already infected. Beware, this is not a lethal disease but it can sure kill you preconceived ideas.

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