I wake to a fierce crack of thunder. Raindrops race one another down the bedroom window of the tiny flat above the bookstore. I rise and consume my coffee, savoring the bitter taste.
I descend. Dust rises slowly from the piles of books splayed haphazardly around the room, each snaking upward, teetering, on the brink of collapse; they yearn to be in hands, not in stacks. The rain continues as I wage a never-ending war against the disorganization.
The smell of books is intoxicating. I breathe in the scent of history, and mystery, romance, soaring adventures, and far off places. I help people discover these things. I guide people on their quests for escape.
I sit in amazement. Entire worlds are contained in these pages. Thousands of worlds are there, waiting to be discovered. One day, I’m a pirate sailing the seas in search of a magnificent bounty; the next day, I’m an astronaut exploring the sullen surface of a distant planet, hoping beyond hope that we are not alone in this mammoth universe.
The words are like music in my mind, coming together in perfect harmony. A joie de vivre of orgasmic proportions. I look up from the pages and gaze into downpour as I think to myself, magick does exist.
