fingers run over spines of books as if all of the knowledge and comfort the words bring will come through osmosis.
concentration is broken; how many books have been touched? which disease was caught; which title remembered?
one dollar, five dollars, eight dollars. books collected that mean nothing except for a famous author; words not yet absorbed that should have been; will be.
stacks are slipped in to plastic bags, lines move forward; still seated, enthralled by the people passing, the conversations quietly overheard, the words lacing through veins.
one hour, five hours, eight hours. dark has settled, closing time approaches; still seated, progression of time unimportant. one book has been finished, another postponed for a future reading moment.
moleskine closes, mac shuts down, espresso machine turns off. final purchases are made, people leave, brains still in the book as feet shuffle to cars, buses, bikes.
all that is left are the books, the titles, sentences, phrases; words that change lives. they will open again tomorrow, communicating beauty to those willing to see it.
