North Atlantic crooners and gently weeping guitars caress my ears like an airplane gaining elevation. Softer now. Slower now. All the librarians love us. All the librarians invite us. Yodelers with laryngitis.  So quiet. So relaxed. Glasses that dip. Oceans caught in the drift of a paper clip. Tongue me on the tip. Swirls and curls. On the ocean floor; I can only see your face.