Gregory skipped along making sure to not go too long. But he caught it! There a guy! he thought. A man standing down the street was edged holding the glimmering, whatever it may be. Why it was a stack as tall as Gregory's! The man ducked into a doorway hidden to Gregory's eyes. Yet, he followed. Directly above the door was a great banner stating: Weatherby's Stories. Oh how it stood! Painted in gold, without a hint of mold, a chorus of flowers out of any cold. The boy looked around and in surprise, saw but not one soul. He stepped inside and at that time finally smelt it: the gold, the books! A smell of ancient ruin dusted suspended in the pages upon pages, spines among spines, and shelves. His eyes winked frustration at the darkness of night, a sudden conclusion by the brightness of the outside light. A step aside and the light beheld a sheath of gold, of beauty, of new and old.
Books. How must I describe it? I'll start with the statues.
Upon entrance, Gregory stood below a towering statue of Herman Melville, encased in a tomb, granite-like, but just a tad darker. In fact guarding all rows of shelves stood these statues, literary triumphs. Gregory gasped, trying to take in the sight, but his thoughts in wind, blew like a kite.
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