Spines so straight, I've never seen before, usually broken and weathered; Never so tethered.
Spines of wood in all one direction.
The text is there, but nothing is clear.
Complete and total silence, except for the tip and tap of the keys that do not exist on pianos.
The keys that did not play my favorite song like my grandmother did in her earlier years.
The familiarity of this place should not be here and neither should I.

Concentration is insufficient in my mind, for the thoughts inside are shouting, gasping for air.
The surrounding souls cannot hear a word.
I shouldn't be here, not even in my mind.
For if the lady in the attic, who wears mirrors on her face, were to hear a word, she would tell me that I do not belong.
No, not in this place.
No, not at all.