Dusty spines, yellowed pages, and dust mites swirling through the slanting sunlight.
Getting lost in stacks that threaten to topple at any moment.
Each spine holds new information, new people to meet, new words.
An antique chair has held many curled up dreamers, lost in other worlds.
Books wait for their pages to be rifled, to be taken home.
The soft murmur of other readers, explaining in vain why this book.
Words cannot explain the love of words.
You just have to read it for yourself.
A quiet place, a sanctuary, a used bookstore.
What's your quiet place?