Today I'm a wall and I'm living in the library. I have taken up permanent occupancy here now and nobody can ever move me away. I am built with stone and cement. I was made with many men's hands. No women were present when I was created, but it was by a woman that I was painted. She used a long roller on a stick and gave me a shade of white, which was covered by a baby grey.
I am hidden behind a shelf. No-one looks through the shelf at me. There are too many books to steal their attention. I am no eyes on me anymore. I am living with nails inside and fleas, moths crawling around in darkness, the light from the sun or the fake light penetrating from the lamp will never bore down into the perfect, inner me, always only hits my outer layer.
One day, many years from now this will be ruin and I will be crumbled and then my innermost pith will meet the sun. All of the rats and moths which call me home will go homeless then and all will die out. But that is many years and days from now. Now I am a wall today. And I am standing still.
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