if i hide from you somewhere you’ve never been, then how could you find me?
there are two balconies in the little library that are three-quarter floors. i don’t think chad could walk on them without stooping just a bit.
i kept turning into dead-ends. i keep turning into a dead-end. three very narrow back staircases to creep down right before closing complete the labyrinth.
mid-balcony boasts sea-glass tiles. no kidding. they are tiles made of sea-glass, softened into translucent green platforms, a miniature dais perfect for softshoe. really soft shoes.
old books smell old. these are things you can’t refresh, perfume, spruce up; paper wears with the oil of hundred hands, second-hand, second hands show the time, all the time.
i am in love with a building. i love a building. maybe the architects have gotten to me.
what do they make this bread with? dill? is this dill? it’s small and green, and spicy. dill. i don’t want the tuna part, even, just the fat mushed bread soaked with tuna blood.
i love a building. won’t you let me check this out? bring me each newspaper from that day, the one that destroyed the original collection, that disease that consumed them all. i want to read what it was like before, see if i would have attached so firmly then.
or if just now, realigning new growth with old hat, i am allowed to come inside. and hide.