The Monastery of Used Bookstores
They're time machines. Confession booths. Repositories of the collective unconscious.
literature
The art of waiting in line
When the line moves, move with it. Not with the hurried shuffle of obligation, but with the deliberate steps of someone with purpose. There is a rhythm to a good line, a pulse that beats. Find it
The weathervane
Each broken thing was a story interrupted, waiting for someone patient enough to hear its ending.
Whispering with my ink
This is the writer's task: to make sense of the senseless, to find order in disorder, to create something eternal from the ephemeral.