On Sundays while I was in high school, I would wander around downtown D.C., taking notes to capture flashes of past, present, future, the destinations where I traveled in my mind, the places where my brain transported me. What was odd, out of place, different, unexpected, new? Those are the details I recorded. One Sunday I popped into a used bookstore, the smell like an attic, a musty hideaway, vanilla, wood, rose petals, mildew. A bell above the door announced my entrance. I ran my fingers…