I was moving quickly around a small set of dark, high-ceilinged, crowded rooms, packing the brown cardboard boxes as quickly as I could, we were being deported. I was making fast anxious decisions, what to take, what to leave behind. It was all a sorting of books, but easier than you might imagine. I'd lay my hand on one and there was no hesitation, it was either immediately yes or---why'd I ever bother with that in the first place? Pairs and stacks were being emotionally tossed aside as leave-behinds.
Easy dream analysis later: this having been the eve of the eve of my 42nd birthday, my friend and I agreed it was all about clearing out what doesn't count. A horoscope somewhere this morning says two thousand and ten is a year of completion and transition for those born February 22nd. "A time of cleaning out dead wood". What is a book, if not exactly that?