Well Stocked With Books To Suit Every Taste

Rows and rows of battered books filled every shelf floor to ceiling. The remainder upturned and scattered in dusty places not even visited by spiders seeking shelter and fodder to build spindly cobwebs in dark corners. No light hardly, in this dank, gloomy, cavernous room, where the windows are extremely dirty and ingrained with mould from years of condensation. never opened, never cleaned because no one comes here anymore.
The owner of this literary cavern had passed away many years ago, reclining, reading Macbeth, in his favorite shabby dark brown leather chair, minus many studs and void of padding. Well worn and now the final resting place of this gentle old soul, who lived three quarters of a century as a recluse.
His most treasured possessions were his bound masterpieces of great value to his mindset, pored over and read with relish as he absorbed every word on every page, consumed by the characters and the story lines. This was his world, pure fantasy, his one and only pleasure in life.
A sad, lonely victim of the Holocaust, he chose to spend his freedom incarcerated once more, as that was all he had ever known. Cruelly separated from his loving parents and taken as a child to live out his boyhood years in a concentration camp, he had not the courage to face the real world. Once liberated to the stark reality of a life he had no knowledge of, institutionalized and scared, he took safe refuge and secured pleasure from the wealth of literary content collected and housed amongst these many rows of shelving, wherein lay his present, forseeable future and the self inflicted reality of how he would have truly wished to live his life, had he ever been given a choice and not a political, misfortunate label of birth.