It is a bookstore.
I am in my element. This is my world, the book world. I walk in the door, and exhileration overtakes me. The long tall shelves, full of personalities in hard or soft covers, elaborate or simple covers, greet me with dignified, yet inviting, silence. I tend to think of books as creatures in themselves, that humans have no part in creating, though we like to think so. Every story has already been birthed in the history of the human race, and all we do is discover them.
I stroll the aisles, embracing the titles with my eyes. How am I to choose one among them? There are too many to read in a day, a week. I could live here, and never tire of them. The hour passes quickly, and I do not purchase any. I buy rarely, selectly. Not often do I find a book to perfectly fill the spaces in my shelves, but when I do I have the nicest feeling. An elation, a glorious elation that few, I think, understand.
I may be making a heaven out of the flammable, but indeed as a writer I cannot help myself. It is an intelligent hobby, with so much more class than fishing, and I believe myself justified.