Library shelves mirror the shelves of memories stacked high in my mind. I run my fingers along the spines of the books closest to me, and they seem to tingle to my touch. Dust motes float in the sunlit air, illuminated by rays of light cascading into the room from windows high above me. The air is silent and I can feel my hear beat to the imagined sound of branches rustling outside each window. Time stands still for a moment; a book drops several shelves away and the moment is broken. Seconds slip away from my fingertips and my farewell has come. I glance at the books around me and visions of lamp-lit nights spent studying drift into my memory; these nights feel warmer now, and their fluorescent lamplight appears golden somehow. The glow of lost time warms me as the library doors close with a resounding thud.