oddly carrying a book

I like walking through town on a winter's night, late, when cars are parked messily because of the piles of snow everywhere and the sidewalk is only a winding path through thick snowdrifts. When all sounds are muted and there is that odd, cold smell of ice, the smell that must have come all across space from the other end of the galaxy. When streetlights illuminate a deserted world. When I'm covered in layers of clothing that hamper my movements and I constantly have to tug my hat further down over my unruly hair to cover freezing ears.

Even better, then, if I in my mitten-covered hand carry a book. I like the feeling of a book in my hand. I like the idea of reading books, sometimes even more than actually reading. Preferably I should be on my way home from a book club, with my head filled with profound thoughts awakened by books and book lovers. I like the feeling of being odd, carrying a real book around - I'm an anachronism and should be dressed in tweed and smoking a pipe. I like the possibility of a stranger looking at me and thinking, "There's another one! I thought I was the only one who still reads."