I spend nights in bookstores. It is not for edification; it is for sanity. I can choose to stay within my own smudged ivory walls or to go outside and seek human contact.
It’s not a tough choice. I go mad if I stay home for too long. If I remain within my own walls for several hours at a time, my eyes roll up in my head. My eyebrows run riot and I grow claws and fangs. Green lightning shoots out my mouth and ears. Obviously, I must drive to Borders.
Borders is great entertainment. First off, it’s free. All the best entertainment is free. It’s open from early in the morning to late at night. And it’s a rotten ugly bastard corporation, so I can stick that in their collective faces if they try to toss me out after I’ve been loafing around for six hours or more.
Not that I’ve ever been threatened with involuntary departure. I behave myself while I’m at Borders. I keep quiet and entertain myself. I fly below the radar of the booksellers and baristas. I am a good houseguest, even at the corporate bookstore.
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