About a mile and a half down the path from my attic rooms, (home since March)  is Grey Matter Books, a maze of a used bookstore.  I am feeling for threads, listening for the emergence of the voices that will guide fresh work, as winter descends upon the aftermath of my frenzied graduate studies. 

The art section that I thought I was headed for is two rooms deep past multiple corridors of books, but I barely get past the register today.