Reference Material

I am sitting in a library that might have hunched against the edge of a green mountain on the island of Jurassic Park. Dirty white walls cutting against the sky, you would imagine vines hanging in prehistoric dreadlocks from the library's roof--a perfect backdrop for a T-Rex to wail.

But all that is outside and the implications of my being inside are thusly more the matter of my future. Or our future, as you must admit we're linked by the circular nature of time.

The nearby book pages smell old, as old as any culture, and with as many colors as the people you pass from moment to moment, too. Brown, yellow, sunless white.

Some would say I'm an old soul. Out of place in the immaturities of youth's playpen. Better placed as the worried eyes of a mother near the fence; an observer.

I wonder if the book pages will humble me, or call my bluff, or maybe both. And I wonder if they'll, adhering to the rules, be quiet about it. I hope not.