I went into a bookstore the other day. (I know, who goes into THOSE anymore? what IS the matter with me?)
Books, baby.
Let’s us touch the crucible. Let’s us look longingly into the gilt.
‘Cause ya know that’s what we all of us really want and need and yearn for with fibers of our being we’re not even sure we have and would stake the heads of our enemies on. Right?
Books.
The lovely pages.
We, the blogger nation, somehow yearn for pages of print, how weird is that?
We write our singular treatises expunging nothing but angst into the ether of the internet- pounding out the pithy- and then we curl up around a dog-eared sun-warmed shitty paperback.
And looooooong for it.
Why is that?
How is it that the whole world’s digital onslaught of ones and zeros hasn’t somehow coldly killed the lowly book? Why is it that a books’ clean and newly printed pages beckon us like cigarettes in a freshly opened pack?
Hmmmmmm.
Fuck if I know, ’cause, well, shit, honestly, I’m not that smart?
But I think of these things and they make me wonder.
Maybe we clutch.
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