A Library Where the Books Are Warm

I walk down aisles of shelves. The books are warm but do not blink, as if asleep. Somewhere I can hear the faint melody of a song that I am also singing. In the distance the librarian is slowly turning pages, and somewhere else the same song continues playing, without hands.

The aisles converge on a table at the front, where an elderly man sits. He is hunched over the table, with his back to me, writing in a large book that is open before him. The words he writes are slow to appear, as if the pencil must search each page for them. Somewhere else the same song plays on and on.