Senses

The only thing I love more than the smell of rain is the smell of books. Musty, old, and slightly acidic. Distinctive. Unawares, I walk through the alleys of Oxford, past the Bodleian Library. As I cross over a ventilation grate in the street I'm stopped in my tracks by the scent. Like a bloodhound to an escapee, my nose faithfully leads me to literature.