In The Bookshop

In the bookshop, the wind sat still on the page the old man had come face to face with, ignoring his fear of paper.  His tummy churned and loudly protested the acid crawling up to his chest.

A little moth flew quickly from the silver worm-devoured binding, happy of its freedom from the one minute imprisonment in the small gap between the pages and hard cover.  His eyes followed the angle of its flight over the hard and soft bound worlds orderly arranged in their shelves, one of which he has on his hands, and it came out ethereal and with texture, from the leaves spread out over his begging palms.  Time inconspicuously passed like a specter by the cabinets, and everyone slowly faded into light.

In the bookshop, the old man silently began eating words.