There is a delectable smell of a plot, of words that will soon consume me, of ideas that will probably influence my writing, my thinking for the days ahead. In the hall with a high ceiling and noisy fans, we take in this smell, aisle after aisle. We pick up books and take in the crammed black and white lines. In that hall, we are once again overcome by that dear feeling of mild thrill and a lot of satisfaction.

I imagine myself lying in such a place, with my eyes only half open and the tube-lights turned off. I think of the books, light up only with a small, yellow bulb somewhere, alive and breathing. I imagine the place so empty, with all the good people gone, that I can hear myself breathe. I imagine just staying that way, for hours and hours, with all the books in my reach.

You’ll be there, somewhere far away, walking around, talking to yourself. You’ll hold a book and think aloud about another book by the same author. I’ll hear your umbrella clapping against the dusty stone floor.

I’ll lie there, waiting for your footsteps to come closer, waiting for you to tell me what books you deem worthy of your collection.

In this dark hall of my imagination, I am at peace.