By Kiki Keane and Rachel Womek
We are sitting in the New Mexico State University library where Rachel has lost her mind, or perhaps I have just discovered that it has long been missing. She is completely transfixed by the darkened aisles. I’m worried she might be a vampire. She says, “A vampire of literature!” I prefer a nicely lit place to enjoy my pros, such as near a big window in a papasan or some other giant chair, just me and Dickens, or maybe Austen, Poe on rainy nights and Tennyson or Keats when depressed.
We are waiting for the Jazz concert to start. We have about two hours to wait, so why not spend it in a room full of books? The only thing better would be if these stupid knuckleheaded students were not here. Oh well. I guess they have every right to be here. Wait tell I rule the world, though! All libraries will be mine! Muh ah ah!
Rachel also agrees that we should have the Library to ourselves. Then we can walk the cool and dark aisles, solitary, breathing in the dust and the smell of books. Old books rich and musty, new books crisp and sharp, some smell like mildew and others like honeyed butter. Then we can sit down in a quiet and comfortable corner surrounded by stacks of bound paper. We will open a book and read words, modern or ancient, wise or inane, words that twist and flow, like dancers, across the page. The external world will fade away and all that will exist is the universe of language filling our minds with its endless possibilities.