The library reminds me of childhood, of feeling safe and content, of feeling endless possibilities.
I  love books.
I love taking books home with me.
I do not love the fines I tend to incur when I fail to return those loved (and lost, infinitely misplaced) books.
                             
I nervously handed the librarian my driver’s license, clutching a torn envelope with my address on it just in case. He informed me that I wasn’t in the system – thank god they don’t remember me – and then told me to apply for a new card.
Five minutes later, I had a brand new library card in my hand.
It was honestly hard to contain my excitement. I wanted to just open the first book I could see and breathe in its bookish smell.
(I didn’t. I have realized that perhaps smelling books that have been touched by the population of any city may not be the best of ideas.)
At one point, I had eight books in my arms.
E and I wandered through the stacks, picking and choosing and chatting.
I will not be able to aptly describe the feeling of contentment that flooded my soul.
I pared my choices down to six.
Desmond Tutu didn’t make it.
(He was replaced with a romance novel, but shhh, don’t tell him that.)

Saturday, K (oh dear – now I have two K’s; this may get tangled) and I went Halloween costume shopping. I needed a tutu and he needed everything. After we stopped at a vintage store, we saw a ton of cop cars headed toward Occupy Denver, and since he’d never been, we went to have a look. I tried to explain it all to him, but realized that it’s a lot harder to encapsulate concisely now that everything seems to have fallen apart.