On my ten minute breaks I often wander around the warehouse, wandering through the avenues of books. It’s really quite lovely.
One day, about a week ago, I was wandering around thinking my thoughts, passively perusing the shelves, when I found myself in unfamiliar territory. It still looked like the warehouse, but something about the lighting and the ambient noise changed. The books around me, too, appeared different than the usual suspects I wandered by on any other day. As I turned from one aisle to another I glimpsed the tails of a long black coat go swishing out of view.
I picked up my pace to follow and discovered that the aisle I was on seemed to lengthen as I walked down it. I needed to get to the end of it to find the black trench coated figure, so I began to run.
Running seemed to help, the bookshelves gave way to Costco style warehouse shelving filled with crates stamped with strange emblems and numbers. Experiencing this change in my surroundings I skidded to a stop and tried to figure out what was going on. Where had the books gone? What were in these crates? Just as I reached out to examine one of the nearest crates, the lights flickered and came back up and what my hand was touching was no longer a crate, but just a worn copy of A Year in Provence. And I, noticing there was only a minute left in my break, walked briskly back to my desk; my mind still flapping with fleeing coat tails.