I love books, from my head down to my looks.

I was at work today looking for some piece of furniture in the warehouse, and was like, "Man, I can't wait to get home today and read my books." The two in particular right now are "A Difficult Par" and "Dream Golf", but there are uncounted others. I can see several armfuls from where I sit, any one a treasure trove of insight, inspiration, knowledge, entertainment. Most every one of them have a bookmark, usually a note card, sometimes a receipt or random envelope. Short story collection, Maine, the first two volumes of The Heath Anthology of American Literature. Babe Ruth, Elvis, Ukraine, and Marcus Aurelius. Mark Twain, 1776, Camus, and the music business. Vonnegut, C.S. Lewis, Zinn, and A Lesson Before Dying. U.S. Women's Soccer, Pistol Pete, Krakatoa, and "This Affair of Louisiana." Terry Gross, Barcelona, Gladwell, and Capote. Huey P. Long, The Upanishads, Whitman, outdoor survival skills. What a world! Not to mention Robert Rodriguez, Shackleton, Pinker, and Shrunk & White. The economics of BLOOD! And these are just what I have on my desk right now. There is no rhyme or reason for why these have made their way to this desk's shelves, but here they are. Some haven't been opened in months, granted, but they're here for me anytime I reach out. I love a good introduction, and honestly, sometimes I don't make it past there, but I still know. I still know the rest of that wonderful tome will be there for me until I decide otherwise. Maybe like a security blanket made of bound paper. Maybe that doesn't even make sense. I don't know what it is about these things, but I love them, always have, for as long as I can remember. Sometimes, I just wanna get home and read my books.