Pale Ones

Few books ever become loved. Most linger on, undead-their sallow pages labyrinths of brittle stories and forgotten knowledge. And other things, besides? Paper-pale forms that rustle through their leaves. Ink-dark shapes swarming beneath faded type. And an invitation? Harris delights in collecting the unloved. He wonders if you'd care to donate. A small something for the odd, pale children. An old book, perchance? Neat is sweet; battered is better. Broken spine or torn binding, stained or scarred. And if you've left a little of yourself between the pages - a receipt or ticket, a mislaid letter, a scrawled number - that's just perfect. He might call on you again. To hell and back again (and again) through Whitby, Scarborough and the Yorkshire Moors. Enjoy your Mobius-trip.