Pressed tightly in the shelves together, the books stand straight and tall. On the emptier shelves the books fall and lean to the side. Some still supporting others. Is that how we are as people too? I wondered to myself this afternoon, as cascades of rain painted an emulsion of grays across the sky.

The plated glass window panes appeared to be weeping. The fine line of each boarder dividing them to their own shape. Boundaries to define each plate as their own. Some weeping harder than others, yet they all still weep the same.

With every patron entering the building, although not many on this rainy day, my loneliness grew. The words on every page in the books within this building rely on one another. They are worthless without the rest. Just as I am without these people. But lately I’ve been feeling like I’m the only word on a page. I’m a lone book on a shelf. All I am is…

Me.