The books are all mine now. It's too bad about the electricity, because it gets dark in here at night. There's no climate control, so it can be pretty brisk in winter. The books have fared well. The rodents have done minimal damage, but strangely have chewed through the collection of Emerson which was kept on the bottom shelf of that section for some reason. There are thousands of volumes in here, but I have done little rearranging, although I admit I've kept everything in its original Library of Congress numbering sequence. Right now the daylight is waning through the large windows in the north lounge and it will be dark soon. I sleep there. There are five long couches arranged in a semi-circle, a kind of theater for lectures and poetry readings, for when there were such things. I have a tattered pillow and a maroon wool blanket I once kept in my van balled up on one couch. I've been cautious, although the others around me became very ill, and I have remained reasonably healthy so far. I'm alive.
A friend is one before whom I may think aloud. Emerson said that. There are bits of Emerson scattered on the floor, some reduced to fragmentary alphabets. I guess language is Emerson when you consider the minutia. And Shakespeare, and Faulkner, Willa Cather, Hemingway, Vonnegut, we have them and many more. We meaning me and this building full of books. I can hear the rodents scurrying in the darkness. Libraries are also notorious for hauntings, but I've seen something only once. I'll talk about that later. It's time to sleep.