Marginalia
Remember when libraries used to be dark?
Deep and winding corridors, caverns really,
with towering walls of shelves and narrow
aisles. Stacks upon stacks, so heavy they say,
that the Indiana University library is still
sinking under their weight. Libraries used
to produce their own atmosphere, a sweet,
earthy smell in the shadows, something
made of leather and pulp and human remains.
Old libraries cast long shadows, were long
shadows themselves. I remember libraries
that felt like the dark forests described
in children's stories, places to hide inside of,
places with faraway echos and odd noises
hidden behind the next turn, places to decode,
places where much is buried. Imagine those
books, some passing decades between hands.
Imagine the strange words written in the margins.
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