We are all just sick books anyway

There we are. Sitting on our shelves along with all the other broken books. He comes along and picks us up and puts us on his cart and takes us back to his workshop. We know that we are broken, but we are much more broken than we know. He takes us in His hands, prying, picking, and exposing the most broken, sick parts that we didn't have any idea existed. And then He breaks us. He breaks us all apart. And it hurts. He starts cleaning us up, cutting away all of the gross and sticky bits that cling, things that get in the way. When He is not cutting us or patching us up, He sets us on a table to dry, sometimes putting boards and bricks on top of us. And we wonder sometimes, if perhaps He's forgotten. But He hasn't. He never does. While we are sitting there drying, He is measuring and cutting and gluing together a new cover, a cover that is exactly the right size and made especially, specifically for us. Then He takes us off the table and glues us into the cover. It fits perfectly.