Standing on my nightstand is a teetering tower of stories spanning from brittle textbooks to honeyed fairy tales, gruff Greek tragedies to smoky mysteries; they tell their stories to me in laughs, in grunts, in whispers, in shouts. They can be found on my pillow as I’m curled up under the sheets, or in one hand while I’m pace the room. The books scattered on the floor, piled recklessly on the table, and thrown onto my bed are my favorites to read; instead of being placed neatly on a bookshelf in alphabetical order, they follow me like moths follow a light- I can’t ever seem to shake them loose. As a kid, I was considered a menace to my local library: I always seemed to return torn, taped, and stained books. I was Picasso and the pristine pages