Slowly, she walked inside, through the security gates, and deeper into the library. Street-like rows of shelves surrounded her, with signs for identification on shelves taller than the Smiths’ home, filled from edge to edge with leather-bound volumes of books. It felt like walking through a mystical, imaginary town, where people had left their thoughts and ideas nicely arranged, each thought sitting on the edge of a shelf, just waiting to be absorbed by an eager mind, that would make it alive again, energize it into being, making it feel important for one more second. Because how else could a thought ever be important unless a person were to express it, ponder it, or share it with another? All these thoughts and ideas, knowledge, insight, collected throughout the ages, were waiting to be chosen, to be loved.