An old, stooped man of a shuffling gate advanced slowly down the shelf lined hall. A particularly bushy and greyed mustache took up a prominent stature, this was topped by tired, but clear blue eyes. The wrinkles on his face rolled over each other, but the look of the face was friendly and laughing. He sat in a cushioned chair, settling slowly. He sat, seemingly motionless, unyet, he was not, for his eyes followed the small children as they scurried about the shelves, his face creased by a smile of appreciation for their activity and his peace. He sat for about an hour until he unhurriedly made his exit. He carried no books, and no evident benefit, but for the far away look on his face as he traced back through the memories of his childhood, his siblings, then later his own family, and even after that, the grandchildren. And now the children at the library.


I saw this man at work, obviously, and though was unable to talk to him, observed him most of the time he remained there. That which I would not know from his looks is obviously a ficticious add-on from my imagination, but it is quite interesting to think of such, in such a way.