Have you ever dreamed about a place, and then, in some strange happenstance, found yourself there? I had a dream once, I think it was a dream, books lined the walls and ceiling and formed a maze. A labyrinth of literature. I crawled prone – I inched myself along – I passed Hemingway and Nabokov, some piles leaning so far they appeared to be falling in to one another, never letting go. It smelled of old paper, trees dying, words fading, I crafted myself a bed of old paperbacks and found myself in that cozy dream state. The waking lucidity. I closed my eyes and smiled in a drunken stupor of self-imposed happiness. This is my place and these are my things. The books had stickers on them for a dollar or two and I took them all. I took as many as I could hold. And as I walked and crawled through the books they fell from my arms as I collected more. I wanted to wrap myself in them like a gown and leave – through the evening streets -stories tumbling alongside me. I saw this place the other day and I wondered if I’d been here before when I was younger. Just a kid with little puffy baby hands holding on, trying not to get lost. Maybe all I could see were books, from my short statue, from my innocent perspective. Maybe it seemed to me as though the whole world were nothing but books and when I fell asleep I dreamed it so, and that dream stayed with me more than the reality. Just a bookstore, just a sale, just a pile of things that nobody wanted anymore.

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