I'm at Saint Louis Central Library, which is on Olive Street downtown. I am seated in one of the many book rooms holding various reference books with a nofiction stack spreading out to my left along the wall and in uniforms stacks at the back of the room. I am the back left or North East table with my back to the stacks, according to my orientation to the room. I am facing a central walk way between the 4 existing tables, each with 4 seats, a central lighting bar, and tabletop electrical outlets. To my right, at the North West table is a man with a stocking cap, a long dark beard, a worn out sweater, and a jacket hanging from his chair. The man is quietly engrossed in a book. It is early September. It is 87 degrees outside. This man is homeless.
He spends his days in this library I can surmise. He carries his possessions with him I suppose. And he's engrossed in an age-old practice, reading. He's not playing with a phone or reading magazines. He's engrossed in a book. At fleeting moments throughout his day as he reads I could imagine that he forgets that he may be hungry, he may have not showered in days, his total possessions are on his back or on the back of his chair, and he's swept away by the narrative of his book to someplace other than this. This man is unburdened by the risks of finance. This man is unburdened by house payments. The man has no address at which to receive bills or junk mail. At this moment, in this majestic building, this man lives a beautiful life.
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