I collect books. They gather in stacks around my space, they huddle in boxes and quietly whisper their stories. They wait for my return.
And when their siren song stirs me, I am transported. I hover over their frayed spines, their yellowed pages, the underlined words, the turn of a phrase, the grace found in words carefully perched on a high wire. Words designed to hypnotize from such great heights.
And from below I gaze. Strung together, their utterances so perfectly choreographed, their movements fluid and deliberate, are precisely performed.
Stripped of all finery and ornamentation, they mock from high above. They pounce the line, they pirouette, and at last they quietly walk off the line and gather. Such brave audacious eloquence.
At the edge of my seat I sit, all the while mesmerized, who empowered them? And how do they dare?
We all remain, long after the page has turned, hoping for an encore.