I’ve worked for a week now, I enjoy working in a bookshop. Even unpacking deliveries and pricing them is alright because it’s (mostly) books and then I get to read all the blurbs and get an idea about them, and afterwards find out where to put them. There’s something that just feels good about putting books into shelves alphabetically. I like to stroke my fingers over them, to feel their square backs and straight lines against my hands.
And I like selling them, making sure the books go somewhere where people can read them. I try to see if people match the books they buy. Sometimes when they don’t the person ask to get them wrapped and then I know why.
In-between this I write. It feels good.
Yesterday I hung out with Maria, and she helped me climb a tree I have wanted to climb for ages. Just when I had got up there So Long Marianne was being played loudly from a window across the street. These two things have nothing at all to do with each other, they just happened at the same time.
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