“You can’t just play catch-up like that you know. These things always turn out better if they are allowed to happen organically. What if you just started on the prompt closest to today’s date and continued from there?”

“Because I fucking love bookstores, okay? Besides this is my time and I get to spend it how I like.”

I am not the reader I was.

Perhaps that could be said of anything, that I am not as much of this,

though perhaps more of that than I was.

As it should be in many instances.

Not in this.

There is a quiet to books that other mediums don’t share.
There is a reverence to their patience,
their promise of,
“no no, it’s fine. I’ll wait here and when you get back,
we’ll pick up right where we left off.”

I used to collect them.

I judged us on what spoke from the confines of shelves,
the countless voices from eras long gone,
and futures pushed up against spines cracked with familiarity.

If the library was my church,

a place of hush and reverence,

then bookstores were my brothels,

A wealth of wares to be intimately engaged with,

for a price.



“You want me to put my hand where?”



When left to our own devices

We might make sacrifices

Of time, I’m certain you’d agree.

But what if there was a way somehow

To focus on the here and now

To learn to live a life that’s mostly free

Unfettered from distraction

Bountiful with benefaction

And contentment with the things already here

It feels like a solution

To the lack of evolution

From lives half lived in hope, half lived in fear.