Going down the stairs now, Bukowski in my hand, taking him to my library. It’s bittersweet finishing reading his verse.
I want to read some more.
It’s the first whole book of poetry I’ve read, and it was great.
So, real, unadorned.
I place him on top of Today’s Best Nonfiction and Tolkien’s Unfinished Tales.
I like my books and the little library my father left me, to which I have added new copies.
Got me thinking of becoming a librarian like my mother. I wish I could spend more time among books in the New York Public Library or the Library of Congress, submerged in knowledge.
So many things to do in such a short life; unable to, caught up in the absurdities of LIfe.
A life that will soon end, whether I make it to 30 or 95.