If ever there was a house that was held together by books, it would be Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby's house. The walls are endless factory lines of words.

Just as books find their strength in their tightly strapped shoulders, the walls find their strength in their tightly stacked ribs.

Asked if they had read all of the books, they exclaimed, 'Heavens, no! It would take lifetimes!'

Still, if you had ever wanted to live in a library, Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby had realised that particular dream.

The books spoke of aging. Their covers faded or yellowed with sun spots. Much of this is reflected in the old couple's faces.

Blotches.
Hair fading white.
Eyes fading white.
Fingers of sunspots.
Like sun for paper, like age for people.

We had come to visit their son. A man who had acquired the HIV virus by way of clockwork intravenous drug use. He was known to the local hospital's mental health ward.

He invited us in.

A face, so gaunt. Was it from the drug-induced-happiness?

'I'm sorry I wasn't very friendly to you the last time we met.'

The vacant gaze.

'I was very depressed.'

Slight tremors of lips.
Slight tremors of fingers.
Stillness of the eyes.

His hands moved up towards his neck. 'I promise I won't try to hurt myself anymore.'

His body quickly regained its memory. At this gesture, his face blanched and the hands rapidly descended, back to their harmless nest on knees nervously clasped together.

There is the rustling of movement from the next room. Mr. Willoughby was playing chess with an invisible opponent. Mrs. Willoughby deftly manipulated a pair of knitting needles.

They grow just a little bit older with each breath. The threads of their precious books unwind just a little bit more each year. Their son struggles to stay in place for just that little bit longer each day.