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All this alone time, and still my books sit, as though I bought them for just that purpose. In a way, I am one of my books, sitting, collecting dust. This night is different. This night I am inquisitive, floating. Hours pass, I am still floating, now more detached than ever, into my books. They seem to enjoy this new, profound life they have been given, and I, in return, am happy to be the patron. Tonight I feel something of significance, as if I had been put on the Earth for this moment. Thoughts and suppositions swirling around me; I embrace the intriguing and hurl the others to the ground. Confined to these walls, I am invincible, all knowing. I like this life I have made for myself and my new-found companions. They seem to like it too. Use is new to them, and it shows by the wrinkles on their spines. That seldom, piercing sound resonates again in my ears, and I am flung to the ground, just as those dull perspectives were minutes, or hours before. Abrupt and predictable, my concentration is broken. I scurry to answer the vexatious device ringing, ringing, ringing. “Are you going out tonight?” My turn to talk. “No.” in a way both hiding and revealing self pity and contempt. “But I thought---“ “No.” This time elongated, more demanding. “Oh,” seemingly understanding my tone, “Goodbye.” I slept.



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