The smell of books really is something admirable; it's wholesome. It's just so real. It's a thing that you can feasibly grasp, and enjoy. It's like an old sweater encasing the scents of it's previous owner, revealing a story to later on revel in in wonderment.

Yet, despite that, people would rather appreciate the incessant clickity-clackity keyboards of computers, and cellphones, than to hear the brisk sound of the pages flipping through a hardback. I just don't think I could ever take any configuration of technology over the wholesome simplicity of a beautifully dusty book, waiting for my mind to lucidly devour its tantalizing story. 

The sound of the rain rapping against the metal roof of the library begins to lull my mind into a dull state. I slightly start to doze off to the sound of the liquid thuds, and the scents of the old paper enveloping my brain; hugging it to sleep. It's like a stimulating lullaby engaging " the interest of all of my senses.

But, I shoot up straight in my chair, to the sound of the electronic welcoming of the door beep of the library. 

Bing!

It's ten p.m, so my mind is semi-boggled as to why anyone would even dare approach the library of all places at such a time. Kids should be out, I mean- what day is it today- Friday? Saturday? I forget after being cooped up in here for so long. Some days, I forget lots of things really. But, that's obviously no matter to the suddenly loud intruder. 

His voice is raspy with a hint of devastated youth, and it slurs loudly without premise. He seems to be lost, and drunk. It's seemingly wanting, and lonely and I can't help but feel for the unknown interloper.

"king-hyuck- books," he growls into the book shelves, "who even reaaads any-hYuck-more," the boy shouts. 
I peer over my desk, slightly shocked as to what's happening, and observe the person in my hovel of a library. 

His box-job black hair is matted against his forehead which is layered with dirt, and a scuff with blood around his temple. His cheekbones are high, and exemplary in appearance; I wonder how they would seem with a smile gently placed upon them. They don't seem naturally rough, and unappealing.

His teeth are quite funny looking, but, are not as funnily covered in blood, and I'm assuming reek of alcohol with a recent stench of sadness.

His eyes wander around, and he glances over to the area where I've huddled, practically profiling him, and..
he begins to cry. 

He drops to his knees, and starts to wail for his mother, and I have no sense of what to do with myself. It's slightly comical, yet extremely mordifying and unnerving. But, after watching for about 30 seconds, I slowly step out of my desk and walk towards the figure, regretting every step I take.

Where could this possibly lead my dreadfully boring librarian life to next?Probably somewhere more interesting than here.