his dreams brightened. the vanished world returned. kin long dead washed up and cast fey sidewise looks upon him. none spoke. he thought of his life. so long ago. a gray day in a foreign city where he stood in a window and watched the street below. behind him on a wooden table a small lamp burned. on the table books and papers. it had begun to rain and a cat at the corner turned and crossed the sidewalk and sat beneath the cafe awning. there was a woman at a table there with her head in her hands. years later he'd stood in the charred ruins of a library where blackened books lay in pools of water. shelves tipped over. some rage at the lies arranged in their thousands row on row. he picked up one of the books and thumbed through the heavy bloated pages. he'd not have thought the value of the smallest thing predicated on a world to come. it surprised him. that the space which these things occupied was itself an expectation. he let the book fall and took a last look around and made his way out into the cold gray light.

from the road by cormac mccarthy