You sit stacked on my nightstand. Your pile somewhat disheveled, a never-ending revolving door of friends. Each one of you holds a story; waits patiently, hoping for your turn to be unfurled. Some of you are lucky. You barely sit at the top of the pile before I’ve snatched you up and devoured you, before passing you on. Others of you continually pushed to the bottom of the pile, gathering dust. You are good, I’m sure you are, it’s just that there others who stand out from the crowd begging. You sit stacked on my nightstand. Waiting for your day to shine.