I am the letters TH left of center on a type written page. I can feel your eyes glide over me. If you're curious, eyes tickle. People of all ages pick up and caress me and my friends on these pages.
This book is my home, where I and my family reside. I know I have lots of relatives. I can feel them. We are so many, practically a whole world of our own.
I'm part of a triad of letters. My friend, the E, must feel lonely, but then he can't be as his relatives are more plentiful than mine.
I feel a fingertip as it touches my page. There's an old man, a re-reader. I know his print. He is an old friend. I hope he'll come to see me again. I've heard humans turn to dust long before some of us in books do. Is it true?
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