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,

A night,

A weekend.

I would spend endless hours digesting the words of those people I would never meet,

And,

On some level,

I knew that I would be one of them.

–

Special thanks to: Melissa Potter

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