The house was gray and foggy within, and to wander then, so curious to see the rooms within, where expensive things were still, the wind coming through the windows, blowing the curtains, I wondered about myself here, and feeling less foolish made my way in, crossing hallways full of oil paintings, till a door appeared with a crack of light around its edges, to hesitate I did not, there was some cold upon my back, so I grabbed the door handle and shook it open to behold a grave yard of books strewn about the mothy rug. A thousand paper back writers down..