Popcorn fogs the windows and butter smokes the air. We all sit hungry around our ignorance, a baffle of friends. We know we're awake because all the books in the library have real words in them and we can understand the stories instead of having to create our own. Emily doesn't remember how we got there so none of us remember how we got there. In the library. Five novels high on the side of a mountain in a country none of us recognize, the library is a castle moated by the sky. The sky is a lifejacket. The sky is a mother goose. Mother geese aren't sweet. They don't tell stories. Mother geese hiss. Mother geese spread their wings to look larger. Mother geese waddle at predators until they retreat. We are in a retreat. We are writing down our safer pasts. We are remembering optimistically. Popcorn fogs the windows and butter smokes the air. Our childhood heroes hiss Christian at our adulthood. Comedians and politicians tell our friends they aren't real. The children's section starts to collapse shelf by shelf until only banned books remain. We start talking about how we met and when we last felt truly full of ourselves.
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