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The last bookstore I swung into followed the evacuation of a hundred some individuals from an elevated train. Two friends of mine, one bronze curled and the other clad with her favorite olive color, shuffled between stacks of books while poorly hiding a single coffee and three sour attitudes for the list of exclaimed rules handwritten above the register. We rifled through the classics, comics, and took our shot at the top shelf that near doubled our statures. Twelve minutes of speaking too loudly through caught throats had us exiting sans books under the murmur of evening news slurring from the owner’s television. The loss is debatable. 

I pick up books that I never finish. At a bookstore in Hyde park, I picked up a five dollar 355 pager. Nearly twenty one and a half pages have been fingered through, and I reference it as one of my favorites. Something about it seems latched onto my ankle with the courage of a river leech. The book seems to be good for me. It may help me think or feel or cause me enough boredom to put my oil pastel nub near the sketchbook again. Regardless, it’s got a green cover embossed with white text that won king of the hill for least ugly in the stack.