I. The modest of cities houses the modest of libraries where I roam as if a ghostly figure, merely haunting the stacks, whose books are filled with ghosts of their own, yearning to be set free.
A gentle rain patters the windows, while the sky turns from deep blue to inky black— the library itself almost breaths, as if a sleeping cat, curled upon the foot of a bed.
II. I move up and down the stairs, while a fellow patron stares at me as I pass, and I imagine him silently judging me, probably thinking “I bet he doesn’t even live in this city.”
All I can do is meet his stare with my own. My gaze an almost listless expression, the kind found on someone caught between boredom and a vague interest in what one is doing— merely worn as a show, as to not look too clinically depressed.
III. I make my way through the fiction— past Faulkner and Fitzgerald, past Joyce and Kerouac— I find myself in the back, among the poetry, and sit down with a pile of Ginsberg.
I wade through his verses, and the words— the words seem to almost shout and barge into each other, like drunks looking for a fight.