I remember that feeling of the shelves,
The walking through them like a forest of dust,
That smell and that particle,
The quiet of it all.
There was a flavor to the stillness.
A sureness of its form.
If it was broken,
It was swiftly taken away again—
Back to the daydream thinking of the literary world.
That many books,
As many as I could fit inside my bag,
As many as I could read in a day,
I would spend endless hours digesting the words of those people I would never meet,
On some level,
I knew that I would be one of them.