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The Bookstore

Endless rows of spines tattooed proudly with titles of whimsical worlds ablaze with greatest regret, pompous triumph, afternoons when the lazy violin plays, anxiety-ridden mornings when the stubborn bongos won’t stop, dreamy Cheshire-cat nights when the piano’s been drinking,

sinister smiles like bear-traps with their boredom, maggots in the mind eating away the dead flesh of morality, the butterfly’s delicately poised legs embracing the last true excitement you’ve experienced in weeks... This is the bookstore... & not even one of those hip ones too; those have died, as this one too shall go in this technologically-stultifying age.. Gone are the days the thirsty mind treks through traffic on a journey to find magic, and not so much in the book they discover, but possibly living in the moments eyeing the party of college students laughing at a table with books abound, the seductive waff of coffee/laminated ink/freshly pressed novels, the funky-smelling individual wandering aisles who has trusted this sense of loss in this palace of ageless pages - I hope he finds it - god is here. Life is here. The devil is very much here. The jungle of our glorious minds developing, coping, sabotaging all for anyone to read in their real hands, just as these minds and experiences were real before in times ludicrous and legendary... the sacred passage of mind, atop of mind, atop of mind has always been through the words of the dead on paper - bones in a grave build a movement - but it’s all gone now, like the eventual cold-shoulder a momma cat gives her kittens all-grown and on to the next creation, as we too - we audacious brains - have done seeking milk from artificial screens.

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