I run my fingers over the book bindings, the smell of books and old pages filling the air. There is nothing more comforting than the smell of the printed word and the quiet of the library. The rustle of the occasional turning page or click of a keyboard pervades the air, and everything in the world is right again.

My skirt sways as I meander down the labyrinthine aisles of books, finding hundreds of books I want to read. And this is where I realize that I come to the library to feel full, but even that leaves me empty.

These books are supposed to fill me, take me places. That's what I've always been told: a book is just a shortcut to far-away places. But I will never read everything I want, because I want to read everything. And that makes everything marginally paler, leaves me a little more pale.

All that's left is to wonder, "What now?"