At the library I worked off my list of assignments within 30 minutes. I sat at a table close to the window and occasionally rested for a few moments studying the uneventful afternoon. Winter in a small town. We had had no snow so far and the branches were spelling out an unfinished masterpiece in a forgotten alphabet against the grey sky, to be continued in spring. The insight that had come to me in New York that Summerville was but a transitional place, was still fresh and made me feel like a visitor in my own childhood. My pale, transparent reflection in the window pane confirmed another aspect that I had not quite dared to include in the idea of places being transitional: I was a transitional being as well. Everything had to change, only yesterday I was a child and it seemed that I would be a child forever. Growing up had always seemed to me to be some kind of failing, a questionable moral choice but now it was clear that I too would eventually have to grow up. My mirror image clearly was not that of a young child anymore. My other self was hovering between the trees lining the residential street and the shelves projecting themselves onto the glass. It seemed like I was sitting in a fabulous natural library, looking from there into the confined space of reality like at a framed painting that didn’t concern me much. It looked like a peaceful place, that library, like a place right out of someone’s mind. Like a place where one would forget time and space and never feel hungry or tired or aggravated. My stomach grumbled as I thought about that place. Being of real flesh and blood I was hungry.