After ascending a slew of concrete stairs, you reach this door. Throw your shoulder into it or else you won’t get it open. Once you do, though, you step through this threshold that separates the desolation of the staircase column from a plateau of peacefulness. You could turn to the right and trot into the maze of cubicles, but you want to turn left. Turning left leads you to an open area smattered with innumerable tables and chairs. The windows spread the length of the wall and cast natural light throughout most of the day and you are always guaranteed a sunset over the harbor. You sit undisturbed for hours, the silence washes you clean from the frustrations of your life. You are in excellent company, for all around you and on the floors above and below are volumes upon volumes of modern man’s gift to his heirs: books. Your friends. You don’t need anything else.
My father used to tell me he hoped his heaven would be the peacefulness of our woods on those quiet mornings we spent together, hunting.
My heaven will be a library.