wanderingraven

I am precariously perched on a library stool reaching for the top shelf.  I am in the mood for transcendentalism.  I pluck Thoreau's journals from Walden Pond, creating a little hole in the shelf.  This city never ceases to amaze.  I can see a pair of eyes through the shelf.  It's an old man.  He's got a pipe and he's smoking roasted cavendish.  $7.09 at Walgreen's, I remember.  Don't know where the pipe's from.  Or the man for that matter. I wonder why the librarians haven't told him to go outside to smoke.  He puts his shades back on and becomes a World War II fighter pilot again.   He was an ace twice over back then, though the government