I feel like the books on the bookshelf have been replaced. A large wooden bookshelf in the study. There is a book behind the glass sliding door. Books vary in size and genre. The arrangement is also in the middle of order and clutter. It seems that the arrangement of these books has changed. I cannot tell which book goes to which position. However, I feel something strange. I am single and living alone. Also, there are few visitors. It is unlikely that others have moved. Then, is the culprit myself? I am so old. No wonder I forget. But I'm not convinced. There are books that I don't recognize at all. I pull out the book and turn the pages. I blushed in unbecoming. I don't remember such a radical photo book at all. There are few, but there are paperback books. I found an unread novel by my favorite reasoning writer. This writer writes only four books in his lifetime. I should have read all four books. Surprisingly, I even found my biography. There is no memory for the author's name. It is very good binding. He examined me well. Almost content is right. However, my death was over.
