a thing that holds books where the imagination is set free about what ever you want to Read. IT LETS you be in a world where you can never even think about being. The reader is inspired and learns many many things about what ever they choose. it is the gateway to the imagination where you can explore.
A bookshelf can be found in the majority of Western households. It is a shame that the developing world will not get to experience the joy of a bookshelf, due to a lack of education caused by lack of funding. A bookshelf contains millions of ideas; in fact, it cannot be contained. A bookshelf is, in inherently, a representation of the world.
The bookshelf was who she was; she pruned it, adjusted it, took care of it like it was alive and flourishing under her hand. New books were added frequently, but books were hardly ever taken away. It had begun with a few shelves empty, neat, tidy, white. Now it was a mess of books that looked much-loved, worn, and there was no system of order to speak of.
There was a bookshelf in the middle of the desert. Analia did not know how it got there. Analia did not know how she got their either, for that matter. It was just her and the bookshelf. And maybe a few cacti plants. But that was all right with her. Far off in the distance, a hawk screamed.
What’s in a bookshelf? Books, obviously. And space, all curled up and folded; a square turned into a cube, a place and a space converted from width to tall, thing to longer thing,
spectacles edging a nose. it was witty. scathing even, once approached but the dust gathered too meekly under his throat. it rose for years and the ceiling leaked its words, it rained occasionally but he swallowed the tears. sitting, waiting for an artist to sweep him away he was caught standing for everything but his flesh and began to melt inside the bookshelf cave of a madman’s death.
It is wooden and large and filled with dust, since they never cleaned it. They had no time, since Eugenia was always caring for Stephen. Sometimes she secretly hoped he would give in and move out, but she treated him far too well. He was old as hell, and she was, quite frankly, just bored with him and with that damn bookshelf.
I sit next to my bookshelf. The lamp shines light on my face. I reach out blindly and grab the first book my hand touches, it is Out Of Africa an old favorite. I close my eyes and remember the first time I read this, in high school. It was raining then and coincidentally is now. I smell the book, old now like me. I love sitting by my bookshelf with all my old friends within reach. I want to be in a place like this where I could reach my human friends as well, but most of them have passed on now. I guess soon enough I will be in that place, the cemetery. My mind does not usually go to these places, but as I get older it may happen more and more I understand. Still, I don’t think of it as being morbid, only expectant.
I have a bookshelf in my room. It has stuffed animals on it. There is a statue of liberty on my bookshelf. I like bookshelves because they keep your junk neat. I wish I had more bookshelves. Yeah.
The dusty old tomes had onion-thin, yellow pages that threatened to shatter with the memories and wisdom within at the slightest touch. The smell of old ink and mildew hung high in the air and it mingled with the wooded scent of the bookshelves. It was breathed by the community, and then breathed back with the knowledge of a new dawn.
ah. There is a bookshelf in fron of me. It is my roommates. My roommate Amber. She is lovely. She is sweet. She is caring. I love everything about her. I am thankful for Amber. I am also thankful for her bookshelf. It is clean – unlike mine. Thank you for the neatness.
I have no bookshelf in my house. All our books are hidden behind closed doors and it really makes me sad. One of my favourite things to do, if I’m babysitting is to take out a book from this unknown bookshelf of whoevers house it is and have a look to get the chance to experience a book I never would have ordinarily had the chance to read.
books all of them read and read to never stop learning. british american italian renaissance. i want them all words to describe the best of moments in the best way. i wish to have a booksshelf of my own one day. filled with tons of paper and old age. books and books and books. the more you read, the more well-versed a man will become. i want to read them all.
I wish I had more time to read books. Books can be amazing and carry you off into their adventures. When I was little, I remember a young kid broke both of his arms after he pulled his bookshelf on top of himself. It was scary. I never thought of bookshelves being dangerous at all.
Slamming against the wood, I breathe in the scent of old books, mysterious lives of characters from other worlds floating through their worn pages. I am like them. Drifting off into my own world of ecstasy and pure thought, this is my dream. You and I, you with me.
i wish i had one. i wish i loved to read. hell i wish i liked it. i usually tend to read things that are real, raw…painful. i dont know why. i love music though. i like to paint pictures with my mind while im listening. Maybe i have ADHD. whenever i am reading i usually end up reading the same line about 800 times while thinking of a million other things.
On the bookshelf
There are an infinite amount of universes
To be discovered by simply opening a story
The world you enter is new each time
The feelings differ on the book
Here I stand, in from of many different worlds
Trying to decide which I will enter
The bookshelf was a piece of shit. The carpenter who made it wasn’t very talented, everything he made turned to shit. Really. He was that bad. But some bigwig in corporate must have really like shit, because I just got back from Ikea, where I purchased said shitty bookshelf.
Tall, short, red blue black
the lack of order offends
but they are loved, each one, like
a child, each with its own story
flaws
pages bent where words moved
and the shelf that holds them
holds my story, too.
the bookshelf sits at the opposite end of the room, a sad memorial to my own inability to organise or clean house. Upon the cluttered top sits an outdated photo of two very small girls, one in pink one in white, their smiles are large and genuine, mine own smile is brittle and unreal
Filled with opportunities. Provides escapes into a completely different world. Can bring you anywhere and can make any day better. A bookshelf is a key to another world. Whether it’s the world of Hogwarts or Narnia, is up to you.
it holds books, useful, can be used for holding other stuff, but mainly for books. lots of bookshelfs are handmade out of wood. books are also made out of wood. with a bookshelf, you can keep many books at a time.
I paced through all the rows and rows of knowledge, they were on my tail. As I ran the different stories crossed my mind, each book reminding me of a different adventure. This was my downfall, as my distraction saw to my own.
I’ve owned one bookshelf. My mom brought me to this lady’s house to buy it from her when I was in 3rd grade. My mom bot me a lot of books, she was a geek. I read most of them, though… I liked comic books better. I don’t know whatever happened to the bookshelf, maybe its still in the same house, just some other kid is using it?
Yesterday I was poking around at a yard sale when something caught my eye… a saphron colored bookshelf. It looked just like the one we had before the fire.
yesterday i built a bookshelf. i filled it with lovely things – knick knacks, snow globes, shot glasses from 100 different hard rock cafes (i loathe t-shirts). My new girlfriend came over and put her drink on my bookshelf without a coaster. no one will hear from her again.
There is a bookshelf. Here in my room. It has books in several languages, including English, Greek, and Spanish. I guess that makes sense, though, considering that I am at a homestay in Spain. Maybe students from many different nationalisties come through this place.
My bookshelf is a clutter, containing old textbooks, past worksheets and notes, overdue library books that have yet to be read, empty paper bags from past shopping sprees, plastic containers, vitamins, yarn. A complete random mess.
I looked at the bookshelf. The hurried organization was jumbled, and to find anything would be impossible. Pushing a length of dusty, ignored novels to the side, i cleared a space.
The bookshelf hung precariously high above her head, sagging gently in the middle where the heaviest books had somehow congregated. She stood, on tiptoes like a prima ballerina and struck out her hand. She slowly leaned and attempted to grab the book while still balancing on on the rickety chair on which she stood.
a piece of furniture to place books, papers, pictures and whatever you want to show to others or to yourself, it can be made of wood, plastic and even metal.
This is the place where I keep every single one of my presents and pasts and futures all bound and stacked in neat rows. This is every version of myself, every version of the person that I want to be.
It’s a wooden safeguard, the shelves holding me in, so I know who I am and can be.
Jensen remembered back to the bookshelf in the den when he saw the open door of the huge white house on the corner. Just inside was a wall of shelves full of leather-clad tomes, gold leaf shining in the grey light. He stood in the street and stared silently as the grey ash snow continued to fall. And then he leaned over into the middle of the street and threw up violently.
There you are on my bookshelf. This picture captures who you were so beautifully. There you are with your blue eyes and big crooked smile. Every day I see this picture and I think about where you would be today, how you would act, what you would be doing. Every day I think about how you died young. Every day I miss you. And every day I think about you.
A bookshelf is a place to store books. I have many bookshelves in my room, with books arranged in colour order, although that order has become a little messed up recently. Sometimes bookshelves can lead to secret hiding places, like the one that led to Anne Frank’s attic. Sometimes bookshelves have books with alcohol hidden in them, or secret messages when the pages are cut out. Bookshelves can be cut to fit awkwardly shaped walls.
muitos anos mais tarde, diante do pelotão de fuzilamento, o Coronel Aureliano Buendia haveria de se lembrar do dia em que seu pai o levou para conhecer o gelo. Macondo era então uma pequena vila…
a thing that holds books where the imagination is set free about what ever you want to Read. IT LETS you be in a world where you can never even think about being. The reader is inspired and learns many many things about what ever they choose. it is the gateway to the imagination where you can explore.
A bookshelf can be found in the majority of Western households. It is a shame that the developing world will not get to experience the joy of a bookshelf, due to a lack of education caused by lack of funding. A bookshelf contains millions of ideas; in fact, it cannot be contained. A bookshelf is, in inherently, a representation of the world.
The bookshelf was who she was; she pruned it, adjusted it, took care of it like it was alive and flourishing under her hand. New books were added frequently, but books were hardly ever taken away. It had begun with a few shelves empty, neat, tidy, white. Now it was a mess of books that looked much-loved, worn, and there was no system of order to speak of.
There was a bookshelf in the middle of the desert. Analia did not know how it got there. Analia did not know how she got their either, for that matter. It was just her and the bookshelf. And maybe a few cacti plants. But that was all right with her. Far off in the distance, a hawk screamed.
What’s in a bookshelf? Books, obviously. And space, all curled up and folded; a square turned into a cube, a place and a space converted from width to tall, thing to longer thing,
spectacles edging a nose. it was witty. scathing even, once approached but the dust gathered too meekly under his throat. it rose for years and the ceiling leaked its words, it rained occasionally but he swallowed the tears. sitting, waiting for an artist to sweep him away he was caught standing for everything but his flesh and began to melt inside the bookshelf cave of a madman’s death.
It is wooden and large and filled with dust, since they never cleaned it. They had no time, since Eugenia was always caring for Stephen. Sometimes she secretly hoped he would give in and move out, but she treated him far too well. He was old as hell, and she was, quite frankly, just bored with him and with that damn bookshelf.
I sit next to my bookshelf. The lamp shines light on my face. I reach out blindly and grab the first book my hand touches, it is Out Of Africa an old favorite. I close my eyes and remember the first time I read this, in high school. It was raining then and coincidentally is now. I smell the book, old now like me. I love sitting by my bookshelf with all my old friends within reach. I want to be in a place like this where I could reach my human friends as well, but most of them have passed on now. I guess soon enough I will be in that place, the cemetery. My mind does not usually go to these places, but as I get older it may happen more and more I understand. Still, I don’t think of it as being morbid, only expectant.
I have a bookshelf in my room. It has stuffed animals on it. There is a statue of liberty on my bookshelf. I like bookshelves because they keep your junk neat. I wish I had more bookshelves. Yeah.
High atop the bookshelf is the red spine precariously perched. Its haphazard position threatening to reveal its authors secrets.
The dusty old tomes had onion-thin, yellow pages that threatened to shatter with the memories and wisdom within at the slightest touch. The smell of old ink and mildew hung high in the air and it mingled with the wooded scent of the bookshelves. It was breathed by the community, and then breathed back with the knowledge of a new dawn.
ah. There is a bookshelf in fron of me. It is my roommates. My roommate Amber. She is lovely. She is sweet. She is caring. I love everything about her. I am thankful for Amber. I am also thankful for her bookshelf. It is clean – unlike mine. Thank you for the neatness.
I have no bookshelf in my house. All our books are hidden behind closed doors and it really makes me sad. One of my favourite things to do, if I’m babysitting is to take out a book from this unknown bookshelf of whoevers house it is and have a look to get the chance to experience a book I never would have ordinarily had the chance to read.
books all of them read and read to never stop learning. british american italian renaissance. i want them all words to describe the best of moments in the best way. i wish to have a booksshelf of my own one day. filled with tons of paper and old age. books and books and books. the more you read, the more well-versed a man will become. i want to read them all.
A bookshelf is for books.
Not technology.
Even though technically books are technology.
I wish I had more time to read books. Books can be amazing and carry you off into their adventures. When I was little, I remember a young kid broke both of his arms after he pulled his bookshelf on top of himself. It was scary. I never thought of bookshelves being dangerous at all.
Slamming against the wood, I breathe in the scent of old books, mysterious lives of characters from other worlds floating through their worn pages. I am like them. Drifting off into my own world of ecstasy and pure thought, this is my dream. You and I, you with me.
i wish i had one. i wish i loved to read. hell i wish i liked it. i usually tend to read things that are real, raw…painful. i dont know why. i love music though. i like to paint pictures with my mind while im listening. Maybe i have ADHD. whenever i am reading i usually end up reading the same line about 800 times while thinking of a million other things.
On the bookshelf
There are an infinite amount of universes
To be discovered by simply opening a story
The world you enter is new each time
The feelings differ on the book
Here I stand, in from of many different worlds
Trying to decide which I will enter
The bookshelf was a piece of shit. The carpenter who made it wasn’t very talented, everything he made turned to shit. Really. He was that bad. But some bigwig in corporate must have really like shit, because I just got back from Ikea, where I purchased said shitty bookshelf.
My bookshelf mainly consists of my photography. Its all jumbled up and taped to the back of shelves. Some in frames. Other pictures just in pile.
Tall, short, red blue black
the lack of order offends
but they are loved, each one, like
a child, each with its own story
flaws
pages bent where words moved
and the shelf that holds them
holds my story, too.
the bookshelf sits at the opposite end of the room, a sad memorial to my own inability to organise or clean house. Upon the cluttered top sits an outdated photo of two very small girls, one in pink one in white, their smiles are large and genuine, mine own smile is brittle and unreal
Filled with opportunities. Provides escapes into a completely different world. Can bring you anywhere and can make any day better. A bookshelf is a key to another world. Whether it’s the world of Hogwarts or Narnia, is up to you.
it holds books, useful, can be used for holding other stuff, but mainly for books. lots of bookshelfs are handmade out of wood. books are also made out of wood. with a bookshelf, you can keep many books at a time.
I paced through all the rows and rows of knowledge, they were on my tail. As I ran the different stories crossed my mind, each book reminding me of a different adventure. This was my downfall, as my distraction saw to my own.
I’ve owned one bookshelf. My mom brought me to this lady’s house to buy it from her when I was in 3rd grade. My mom bot me a lot of books, she was a geek. I read most of them, though… I liked comic books better. I don’t know whatever happened to the bookshelf, maybe its still in the same house, just some other kid is using it?
Yesterday I was poking around at a yard sale when something caught my eye… a saphron colored bookshelf. It looked just like the one we had before the fire.
yesterday i built a bookshelf. i filled it with lovely things – knick knacks, snow globes, shot glasses from 100 different hard rock cafes (i loathe t-shirts). My new girlfriend came over and put her drink on my bookshelf without a coaster. no one will hear from her again.
There is a bookshelf. Here in my room. It has books in several languages, including English, Greek, and Spanish. I guess that makes sense, though, considering that I am at a homestay in Spain. Maybe students from many different nationalisties come through this place.
My bookshelf is a clutter, containing old textbooks, past worksheets and notes, overdue library books that have yet to be read, empty paper bags from past shopping sprees, plastic containers, vitamins, yarn. A complete random mess.
bookshelves eat minds.
I looked at the bookshelf. The hurried organization was jumbled, and to find anything would be impossible. Pushing a length of dusty, ignored novels to the side, i cleared a space.
The bookshelf hung precariously high above her head, sagging gently in the middle where the heaviest books had somehow congregated. She stood, on tiptoes like a prima ballerina and struck out her hand. She slowly leaned and attempted to grab the book while still balancing on on the rickety chair on which she stood.
a piece of furniture to place books, papers, pictures and whatever you want to show to others or to yourself, it can be made of wood, plastic and even metal.
This is the place where I keep every single one of my presents and pasts and futures all bound and stacked in neat rows. This is every version of myself, every version of the person that I want to be.
It’s a wooden safeguard, the shelves holding me in, so I know who I am and can be.
Jensen remembered back to the bookshelf in the den when he saw the open door of the huge white house on the corner. Just inside was a wall of shelves full of leather-clad tomes, gold leaf shining in the grey light. He stood in the street and stared silently as the grey ash snow continued to fall. And then he leaned over into the middle of the street and threw up violently.
There you are on my bookshelf. This picture captures who you were so beautifully. There you are with your blue eyes and big crooked smile. Every day I see this picture and I think about where you would be today, how you would act, what you would be doing. Every day I think about how you died young. Every day I miss you. And every day I think about you.
A bookshelf is a place to store books. I have many bookshelves in my room, with books arranged in colour order, although that order has become a little messed up recently. Sometimes bookshelves can lead to secret hiding places, like the one that led to Anne Frank’s attic. Sometimes bookshelves have books with alcohol hidden in them, or secret messages when the pages are cut out. Bookshelves can be cut to fit awkwardly shaped walls.
muitos anos mais tarde, diante do pelotão de fuzilamento, o Coronel Aureliano Buendia haveria de se lembrar do dia em que seu pai o levou para conhecer o gelo. Macondo era então uma pequena vila…