Tuesday, March 2, 2010


I don't like shopping. It makes me antsy, especially if I'm with someone else. The longer it drags on, the more irritated and reclusive I get. I've never understood the point of it. If I'm by myself, I can spend as little or as much time in a place as I want, but with other people I feel trapped and terminally bored.

With one exception.

When I'm in a bookstore, it doesn't matter whether I'm the only soul in the building or whether I'm there with a posse of friends. The world drops away and time slows. I feel like I have forever to lazily run my fingers across the bumping rows of spines. I can gently pick up and read the cover of anything that strikes my fancy, whether it be a solitary title or a continuous stream of them all stacked conveniently side by side, as though they knew I was coming and wanted to make access to themselves easy. In a bookstore, my steps are slow and luxurious. Really, I barely get on at all. It's as though I have an eternity to bask in their musky scent and listen to the rustle of pages, to feel their wonderful weight in my hands.

I hope there are bookstores in Heaven.

Listening to: "Out of My League"
Reading: Steinbeck

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