crooked corners

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Once upon a time, I accidentally decided to liken my wardrobe choices to that of an elementary school librarian; so I drug my best friend/cousin/photographer to the largest library on campus in the middle of finals week to take pictures of the aforementioned outfit.
I forgot how much I loved the smell of old books and running my hands along the shelves—stopping to check the dates inside the books with the most weathered spines. I also forgot the awful things florescent lighting can do to the imagined romanticism often trapped in the shelves of an almost 100-year-old library. Gorgas felt more mental institution than it did study haven. Although, passing through students with tired eyes and rumpled sweatpants buried in notebooks and laptop cords, I sensed the fraying of meninges.
Skipping through empty aisles, through books that probably haven't been opened in years—it was nice. Even if my reasoning for visiting an outdated school library was trite, I'm glad I was able to rekindle my appreciation for the underdog; crinkled, cream pages, bound with glue and tacked inside the crooked corners of a stamped spine. iPads don't smell like anything.
Currently reading: The Road by Cormac McCarthy
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[everything I'm wearing is old and you can't find it anywhere.]
Thanks Daniel for the photos.