The bindle stiff, tired of the action of bundle stuff, can not quite reach where his aching self yearns to stand. What places to go when tied to one’s feet? A library, of course! Everywhere in one seat! A tattered book for a tattered soul? Pages turned from white to yellow. But, the words are still seen and their messages are clear: from page to eye to brain to heart: their are no limits between here and there. Then, as the light passes the leaves astep the window, orchestic shadows draw thoughts back to the real. No plane is needed to return to destination, though, as there is no bond to here nor fare for return. A turncoat of turning coats as an identity has already been chosen; there are no others wealthier. And, while a return may be necessary for each wanted tome, the sonsy paperback, the first to light him, has always a home.