Bibliophile

He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall behind him, in the midst of a glorious city of books, ranged into huge towers piling up around his ears – but he seemed completely oblivious to their precarious balance. He was absorbed, swallowed up in the voices of the ancient volumes, listening to their whispers, drinking in their wisdom. They called to him in seductive murmurs, pulling him into their world.
Every now and then he would set down one book and pick out its companion, and a little furrow appeared in his smooth forehead.
But despite appearances – which we know to be deceptive – his mind was not wholly occupied by what he was reading. He was, after all, merely biding his time. He knew that one day soon, something would happen. He was not foolish enough to attempt to precipitate this event, for no good could come of that, so he was waiting. His time would come.
Meanwhile, he was exercising his patience and his brain in equal measure, and the towers of books continued to rise. He had a great many books to read, and an unspecified amount of time in which to do so. People came and went, but generally he ignored them until they left him alone. People would keep. The demands of his books were more urgent.
He shifted slightly, and turned a page. There was time yet. And the books kept him from going utterly mad; they gave his mind more to focus on, more to play with, more to wrap itself around. It didn’t do to refine too much upon the past. His books were his solace, and he would not give them up until his time came. But it had to be soon.