winchester 6

The adolescent walked into the bookshop. He had an account there. He could buy whatever books he liked, within reason. The bookshop was old-fashioned, slightly stuffy. Quiet and studious. There were a dozen people in the bookshop. He knew all of them. Some of them by sight, some of them he knew to say hello to, some of them he knew reasonably well. All of these people were involved in their own quiet perusal of books.

He looked at the revolving wheel of Picadors. Flicked through Calvino, Brautigan, Pynchon, Hesse. Names he either knew or which would catch up with him. He wasn’t buying. Just killing time.

As in a vision, he saw this space recreated. So that each of the dozen people who were there did not exist in a bubble of their own, but in a communal bubble. Where to participate in each others thoughts, dreams, desires, hopes and fears was as natural as it might be to participate in your own.

He looked at the faces around him. Some glanced back at him. He saw how distant the world he had just imagined was. How removed from the world they actually shared. He left the bookshop with the dream inside it.