Am I a vicious reader, or do I simply love to look studious, a scholar amidst animals out of tune to written words?
Do I wish to taste of the stuff of stars to know their substance or to show to others I have their colors on my tongue?
I fear I sit among volumes, filmed in dirt just like their authors, calling for them to read me their works only to tell others I’ve spoken with a ghost.
Were I alone among these stacks, desolate from life for good, would I become a scholar, or eat the books for food?