There are too many books in this room. They can't all be read.
Stacked, Piled, Skewed.
The characters are inside waiting to be read, met and breathed on by the nose of the reader.
The smoke goes in when the door is shut.
It enters the leaves and runs through the words.
Robinson Crusoe enjoys the smell, for he has not smoked for twenty eight years. 'This is not, quite, fine tobacco,' He says. Seemingly twenty eight years on a desert island has not hindered his habit.
Alice sits in the house, her arm hanging through the drapes and touching the vegetable patch. Alice does not like the smoke; she continuously wafts the netted curtains, sighing gently, her eyes watering, raw and red.
I can hear Annie Wilkes, 'You dirty bird,' she says, 'You dirty smoking bird.' Reaching for her mallet, she remembers the law of the novel. Only act as you are read.
Sometimes I imagine that they would leap, through each blurb in to the next novel, transcend and drip through the pages and slowly, steadily, Lady Audley would creep in to Dorian's room, she would sit there, waiting for his return from the Opera and greet him, hungry for his beauty and fame only to join him later in the picture. She would grow old, her skin like a turkey and her nails, dropping off one by one to leave hard dried ends on her witches pointed fingers.