Post by ocean on Aug 15, 2008 16:43:40 GMT -5
A flinch was felt as the library door slammed unreasonably loudly behind him; why did the world have to be so damn noisy? His shoulders hunched, Groves advanced to the receptionist’s desk, satisfied eyes noticing that it was empty. The little old lady’s cardigan was still draped over the shoulders of her rickety old chair behind the desk, but she’d wandered off somewhere for the time being. Hopefully, she wouldn’t return anytime soon.
Groves proceeded silently towards the rows and rows of shelves, his gaze settling upon his own traveling feet. It was obvious that he knew his way around; he didn’t even glance up to check the section he was in when he paused before a particular rack of dusty old volumes near the back of the library. His hand inched towards a thick red piece, one long finger stroking its spine with almost unnerving affection. Ahh. This was his world. This was where he belonged. Silence, dust, books, it all attracted him beyond natural means. Groves had a strange liking for dust. Dust meant old things, trinkets and other abandoned objects that had been left to sleep, undisturbed. Discarded to age silently, unknowingly. Age meant knowledge. Dust meant age. It wasn’t hard to make the connection.
With careful fingers, he pried the crimson-bound novel from between its shelfmates, balancing the book on two open palms as he flipped through it. His dark eyes took in every word. They scanned the page hungrily, as if some insatiable thirst fueled his pursuit. The siren song of logic could not be refused, no, at least not for long. Every so often he’d have to sneak away from the shop and stop here, where it was quiet. Where the wisdom of the ages could be grasped by both the hands and the mind.
Groves proceeded silently towards the rows and rows of shelves, his gaze settling upon his own traveling feet. It was obvious that he knew his way around; he didn’t even glance up to check the section he was in when he paused before a particular rack of dusty old volumes near the back of the library. His hand inched towards a thick red piece, one long finger stroking its spine with almost unnerving affection. Ahh. This was his world. This was where he belonged. Silence, dust, books, it all attracted him beyond natural means. Groves had a strange liking for dust. Dust meant old things, trinkets and other abandoned objects that had been left to sleep, undisturbed. Discarded to age silently, unknowingly. Age meant knowledge. Dust meant age. It wasn’t hard to make the connection.
With careful fingers, he pried the crimson-bound novel from between its shelfmates, balancing the book on two open palms as he flipped through it. His dark eyes took in every word. They scanned the page hungrily, as if some insatiable thirst fueled his pursuit. The siren song of logic could not be refused, no, at least not for long. Every so often he’d have to sneak away from the shop and stop here, where it was quiet. Where the wisdom of the ages could be grasped by both the hands and the mind.