Enter the library with a hushed reverence, an empty-handed pilgrim. The ritual begins. It is rhythmic, the copying of numbers and letters on a scrap of paper, which are then silently mouthed to yourself, like a prayer, as you wander up and down the pew-like rows of shelves. Sometimes you find exactly what you were looking for, other times you are disappointed—you have come at the wrong time, and the book is in someone else’s possession. Or best of all, you are pleasantly surprised, and your fingers unconsciously pause on the spine of a book you didn’t know you wanted. You leave, arms happy to bear the blessed weight of so many volumes.

Rush home, starving. You gorge yourself on the first novel; you are satisfied for now, but pore over the words again later, letting the flavors soak into your teeth. The others are hoarded, slowly sampled in the dark of night. It really is quite late, but you cannot deny yourself this indulgence; like honeyed tea or warm milk, you simply cannot fall asleep without a page or two of prose.

The most striking phrases are meticulously copied into a notebook. They are artfully weaved; you are captured. You wrap yourself in the chain-mail; it is hard and protective, but allows you to move freely. Whether ornately adorned or ingenuously simple, the lattice heavy with meaning, forged by those who have already lived. Their lessons seep into your skin, and guide you on this hero’s journey.

“The human mind is like a cosmos,” a stranger once told you. “When you read, you become an owner of the words, the knowledge.” You imagine a silvery orb swirling inside your skull, a galaxy of white-hot stars ablaze in a sea of liquid onyx. Their fire is fueled by knowledge, kindled by books in a celebratory burning. You are a happy slave to these flames, and feed its smoldering heat with poetry, novels, literature. The glow pinks your eyelids, and makes them warm.