I have a library in a crook of a space that runs unexpectedly off the main room in my condo by the park. My library is red. I have huge shelves with books. My small marble hippos and wooden elephants sit sentry on these shelves, keeping an out eye for thieves or dust. Photographs of people I love in places we've been sit importantly on the middle shelf. My computer, on a long writing table with narrow, Regency legs is under the wide, picture window at the back. Across the far wall is a long, old couch with large flowers. It was banished from the other more masculine areas of the house by my husband, who prefers the soft, frayed comfort of the wide blue couch by the T.V. But I like it here: my books warm the room, the paint color encourages my mind, my dog sleeps on the carpet, chasing Heathcliff in his dreams, and my computer is open. Onward.