A ghost of dust as the door opens. Battalions of books in line abreast, spines straight as ramrods, tight and bright as a drummer’s cordings. they gleam with polished leather and gold leaf all noble , each one touts their title. “Foreword “ they call to your eager ears and you will follow. Wait. Their turn will soon be gone. Smell the ink, and glue, damp paper, book dust coating every surface. Explore the stacks for books with broken backs, the ones with scribbles in the margin, edgeworn, scuffed and limp, tea stained , missing pages, dust jackets torn or ripped away. All casualties of culture.