weak green eyes blink noncommittally down the stairs, those old rastafarian stairs, those winky and slinky downstairs. the ragged shoes go clatter-clatter down those stairs. and at the bottom, for a flash of an ounce of a glimmer-- the time bomb stopped-- the wise and cranky gentleman twirled: presented his velveteen rabbit to you plus his hat and his coat and his trousers and socks then he cuddled up his nose to you as he stood whiskery in short pants, there. yes, yes, and so he stood pinching his mustachios, peering at you in the gloom stacks and stashes of hordes of books loomed around and all about you tilting and filling this old and reverend hallway this tired and happy bookstore with its damp walls and its mildewed ceiling fans its be-spidered corners and creaking floors. normally a happy time, but this night (and I was there) there appeared some writing on a wall the libros sweated a pedant sort of dread it was overwhelming (I could see it in your eyes), far moreso than the leering gentleman in shorts... but as you waited, waited for the other one to drop, those book titles all lost their meanings, their covers bled together all the words and pictures and letters and all melted together and dripped to the floor. they slipped through our skin: we couldn't speak them fast enough. we nearly drowned in words that night.