I look at books on the "new books shelf," peer into their faces, leaf through these carpentered, carved, crafted blocks of wood, before they are themselves shelved in the endless forest, the woods where one can get lost and never return, or build a cabin, a nice place to sit by the fire fueled by crackling leaves, and read books, and write books, and add to the forest, trapping yourself and all else for the rest of eternity.
I bet that's somewhere in the forest, already put on paper, this paperless, useless, transient thought smacked on plastic keys, zipped over ringing wires to my home, your home, your eyes, your mind, my piano.