Today I had an attack. This is when I walk by a bookstore and can’t go it. Can’t. Go. In. I know that if I see the front table offerings, all the books beautifully stacked in their best back to school clothes, and the darling shelf talkers with their lovely cursive print, and the shelves with their gorgeous mosaic of spines, and the carousel of Moleskins, I know that if see all of that and smell the coffee brewing and overhear a couple talking about Larry Shteyngart that I will feel myself fall from a great height and there will be no sound and the light, of course, will be diffuse, and later I will be sitting beneath an elm tree wishing I had a sweater, my copy of All My Pretty Ones worn, and the jacket, black and violet, an exquisite bruise about to yellow.
Does this ever happen to you?
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