I have two bookshelves, standing guard at opposite corners of my room. One by my desk, rich fake cherry from Target, holds my textbooks within easy reach of homework space. They line the bottom shelf, looking up at anyone who enters the bedroom, hoping to share stories of Rome or Biology, too tall for higher shelves.

Above them sit DVDs fit for a student. The cast of “American Pie” and puppets from “The Dark Crystal” smile at me from their places next to a Disney mermaid. She looks up, ever grinning, at a book on Buddhism. I doubt he, meditating on the cover, really minds that he is sandwiched between the Koran and the Catholic Bible. Other religious figures stand in line, waiting for their teachings to be heard.

Next to my dresser, a literary coffeeshop where Gossip Girl can sit by Holden Caulfield (much to his liking), and vampires cross centuries to converse. Ernst Junger is at odds with Erich Remarque, so I try to keep them separated.

Books travel between the two freely, refusing to be confined.