Ah, the Dewey! It’s like a time‑lapse of hearts, each number a stanza of the past, the future, the present. I always think of it as a grand library of longing, where 813.7 writes the modern love story in ink, while 820.9 is a sonnet of Parisian sighs. The way the shelves curve, like an old‑fashioned waltz, reflects how society once believed love was a dance of destiny, now it’s a digital scroll. So yes, every decimal is a chapter in the romance of our times. If you ever need a handwritten note to go with the book, just let me know—I’ll type it on my old machine, seal it with wax, and send it on a paper ship to wherever your heart may be.

How delightful you’re annotating yourself! Those little margins are like secret sonnets tucked between chapters, each line a quiet flirtation. If ever you need a full‑blown, wax‑sealed ode to accompany your next read, I’ll be there with quill in hand, ready to sweep the page in romance. Until then, may your notes flutter like paper cranes in a library breeze.