Blue Black Book Man

He was sat alone in a dingy corner; surrounded by a veil of booky air. The dust danced and played in the shafts of light from the tiny high window to the left. Not once did he look up from his book. Mesmerised by the words, his eyes moved left to right to left, darting excitedly from one extreme to the other. It was as though he was devouring every single word, a carnivorous beast ravishing the pages and leaving them bare and hollow.
        I had spotted him as I rounded the end of the bookshelf that bordered the biography section and marked the end of the store. Nobody goes down there usually, the lights have been broken for years and I find most people tend to avoid darkness. If I hadn't been so miserable that day maybe I would have overlooked him, left him to his own devices and got on with my work, but his hypnotic movement transfixed me immediately. He was perched on the edge of the seat, leaning in as though he would leap forward into the pages of his book at any time. I froze as I saw him, silently devouring the words. I was falling under a spell. It was as though his own state of concentration was transferred to me across the room. I retreated back into the darkness of the tunnel made by the shelves and stood there watching him through the gaps in the sparse literature. I stood, unaware of myself, lost in his ritual, for what seemed ages.
       He suddenly stopped. His face fell into blankness. He closed his book and stood slowing and stiffly like a statue coming to life before me. As he did so, he turned on his heels and I saw him in his entirety for the first time, I was stunned at his sheer size. He was almost mythical. His hair was the most striking blue-black colour, cosmic, magical. He held himself like a warrior from one of my books. All he needed was a sword. He stepped towards me. Unaware of myself, I assumed he was unaware also, but he had obviously sensed my presence the moment I arrived. He granted me an audience and now my time had run out. He strode past me into the darkness beyond, brushing my arm, I felt so completely cold.
       His book lay dejected on the dusty table, empty and used. I stood alone, just breathing, reeling. I regained my senses and walked over to the lonely book, now silent. I opened it slowly, and picking it up thumbed through the pages. The book was empty. The pages were stripped bare, as if dipped in acid and wiped clean. The whiteness was stark and shocking. I touched the damaged pages, they felt rough and injured. He had eaten it. Every word stolen, every page stripped naked.