There are assorted trinkets, figurines and small objects placed
about the bookcase shelves, interrupted by Grisham, Fitzgerald, and lesser-known writers
with something to say.
The cobwebs stretch across the
time I've been absent. There is no music
playing, and that in itself is noticeable.
It's like my being here is disturbing the quiet.
These shelves are an
archeological dig into my time here.
Items that were important enough at the time, now are simply interruptions.
Tied to each one is an emotion, a
distant memory of something or someone.
Not always obvious, though one in particular seems to reflect a sadness,
something best not remembered.
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