So flying while dreaming of flying books. Holding back nightmares about Fahrenheit 451 and otherwise destroyed volumes (Alexandria Library being the ancient wonder) as modern violence, dust, must, book worms and neglect take their prisoners.
Clutching them, without protest,
into the grips of oblivion...
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Somewhere there are optimists, sentimentalists or conservators. I want to believe that the books below have been set out to dry among myrtle trees (from which comes sacred myrhh) and vases of fragrant flowers to infuse the pages with honor and perfume. At least reconstruct some semblance of order.
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