You stand in front of a bookcase. The shelves bow from too much weight. The books are stacked sideways and upside down. There is no discernible order, except loving chaos. A librarian passes by, shoving a book into a case, not looking up from the one she was reading.
Another person might wince at the disorder, but you smile instead. You’ve played this game before and you know the rules.
You close your eyes and start to spin around. You spin around in a circle, uncaring of where your feet land, what you haphazard limbs hit, or what your fingertips brush. You stop only when you have absolutely no idea where you’ll be when you open your eyes. You reach out with your hand and grab onto a book. You pull it towards yourself, opening your eyes.
The spine of the book is falling apart. The cover has worn off with age and you can barely make out its title. The pages are in tatters, filled with notes and creases. It’s a well-loved book at its finest.
You sit down and begin to read.