The Library.

The musky, wooden scent of aged books dances through the air,

arms extended and toes pointed like conditioned ballerinas,

implementing precise pirouettes under nostrils.

An atmosphere so silent you can hear the sound of the morning's java

flowing steadily into coffee-stained mugs

You can hear the sound of a child being inspired

Even the sound of eyes scanning book spines

and then smooth pages,

and, of course, the proverbial drop of a pin.

A place where time is a mere suggestion, and the only requirement silence

to melt into someone elses' life,

to leave behind the stresses of your own

and pour yourself into the pages

as the pages pour into you,

blending and swirling about your mind and soul

like cream into coffee―

converging and becoming one.

Words engraved within you,

tattooed behind your eyelids,

in your heart,

on your bones.

The periodic “Shh”s like soothing waves,

rolling over you and pulling you deeper into

the plot as it

thickens

and action rises,

the strong current of phrases almost

pulling you

under.

The Library.