SweetMangoPandaNerD

The musty smell of age and paper breathes life into you every time you waltz into the city library. The way the sun streams in from the stain glassed windows, illuminating the dust motes hovering in the air, casting colored shapes onto the tile floor. There's a comfort to be found in the worn down furniture; wooden chairs with anonymous words carved into the arms, tables with scratched in hearts and confessions of love, sofa cushions who had long lost their fluff and plushness. You could spend hours and hours in the maze of bookshelves feeling simultaneously lost and found. Your favorite spot was always the table in the middle of the study lo