Books scatter across my apartment, coalescing and coagulating like the clumps of dust and fragments of hair that somehow migrate into the apartment from beyond, infiltrating my occasionally permeable isolated world. In some places, the books tower, teetering, like some childhood game where pieces are slowly removed, clutched in sweating palms, then strategically relocated to build ever higher. Not infrequently, I pass over a new pile, discover a title that I had once remembered purchasing, neglected, allowed to crawl bow-legged into some recess of neural space; in a sense, it is a delight, a renewed surprise.
When we were younger, inordinate amounts of time were spent fixated on the deaths and burials of ancient Egyptian kings, stowed for an eternity, or, until a raiding opportunity, to desiccate in an arid tomb of gilded delights and fantasy for the living. Futile for the ones who have passed. In my sepulcher, the gilded items, vases and tapestries and oozings of fine jewels, are replaced with the simple spines of books.
My fantasy: hollowing my walls, emptying them of marshmallow ventilation and collections of antiquities to be expected from such structures of old, build them anew, into a neat array of shelves, complete with a ladder. Naturally, leather and chrome sitting chairs would be included in this delusion.
(images taken from The Pursuit Aesthetic)