Three in the morning, the lit hands of the clock tell you. You glance down, uncaring. For why should you care? Nothing in the world is more important right now than the hero, the heroine, the man in the cloak or the maiden in distress. Nothing is more important than the dragon atacking the village or the homely man begging for food. Nothing at all.

You inhale the smell of the pages, the new white pages. Sometimes they’re old, dusty, crinkly, yellow pages. Those are the best. They smell like memories, they smell of thunderstorms and late nights and train-rides and parks. Those pages are a life unto themselves, wrapping in them so many words, so many emotions and stories.

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. Surely not. A picture could never come close to the feeling of reading a four page description of a landscape or a dinner table or an outfit. A picture cannot encompass the feelings of a desperate man or stranded woman or a wounded soldier.

Three in the morning, the lit hands of the clock tell you. You sigh, happily. As long as there are books in the world, you can be at peace.