Journal entry

Some of my books are stacked on the floor. Some of them are two rows deep on shelves. Some books are laden with dust. Others, a dribble here and there where wax has trickled down the spine of a candle and splattered as it hit its mark. In the room where my books are, there is a subtle fragrance of incense.

The smell of wood-smoke emanates from the fireplace and a tangerine glow replaces unnatural light.

In front of my writing desk, books create a make-shift separation between here and there, and a stack of paperbacks remind me of Ilva.

I think of the note she so politely wrote on a piece of paper instead of directly on the flyleaf in book one of the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant. A slip of paper I can not find as I frantically flip through all the pages in all six books, and finally find it innocently minding its own business between the copyright and dedication pages of Lord Foul’s Bane. ’What?’ It seems to say as if mocking my panic. I quickly tape it to the page.

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