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Librarian

He presents himself lanky, wavy bown hair mid length and unruly, spectacles push up to a place they seem a bit un uncomfortable,  tall around 6 ft, cardigan golden, brick red trim.  Brown pants, brown well worn dock martins, worn brown t shirt.. the disheveled appearance and packaging of cute nerd. 

The room is old oak floor to ceiling bookshelves and books,  ladders on rollers and slides are attached allowing access.  a large rectangular table sits in front of the iron framed windows.. sun light beams display the floating ancient particles suspend in the radiance. 

I feel a natural ease in this place. 

He turns warm smile ..hands me a worn but newer leather bound book.  "This is yours"  i take the book smell it.. that's what i do with books.  A bit strange i know but i love the smell..

"Mine"  ..whispered as i held it..

"Yours" as he motioned to the entirety of the room.

These were stories of lives..some thick some thin.   The books were mine or me .  He my curator. 

I found it funny this presentation.  He could take any form. Ethereal if wanted.  But he liked this way and figured i would also.  He is right. 

Not many get to spend time while in life in their library of lives.. It is a strange feeling having part of me watching swim practice  and also flickering here.


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