A library card can take you anywhere, the card catalogue council will tell you, but it doesn’t really get you to those warm and fuzzy feelings of human touch and the love that sometimes accompanies those hands and lips. Those are just pages made out of paper, made out of hard trees, soaked and flattened into sheets that hold inked-up thoughts. They can be cold or they can be warm, but they can’t be worn or hugged back. Words are replacements, space holders for what they hope to invoke or bring on, as if the veins of love are like balloons that haven’t been blown up yet, just limp and rubbery and lying droopily like a pile of sailing rope.