The wooden doors swing open, creaking as they do.
Books litter the walls, tables, and chairs.
Bestsellers filled with politics, celebrities, and dieting.
The "Classics" eisle is all but abandoned.
Shakespeare, Steinbeck, The Bronte Sisters, and more.
Books filled with elegant phrases, heartbreaking last words, and timeless prose.
I run my fingers along their spines, walking past the gravestones.
Reaching the music section, I smile and wander forward.
So many memories to be found.
Mozart, Beck, Chopin, Hendrix, the list goes on.
So many artists here, preserved through a dead medium.
CD's no longer hold a special place in the world, along with the books housed nearby.
As I walk to the entrance, now an exit, I see rows of newspapers.
Yet another reminder of times gone by.
Staring at the building, about to enter my car, I realize something.
This place is a graveyard for old things.
While the world has moved on to Kindles, iPads, and mp3s, this place has not.
That's why I'll come here until the day it to, is buried.