She walked past a petty excuse for a bookcase, in its size, not for the quantity of books it carried. Barely enough space horizontally or vertically to force another book into the cracks. Books were an obsession and book shops were unavoidable. With nothing in mind, no particular book of interest, she'd still roam a book shop. Scanning the shelves, the discount box and going through the authors in alphabetical order. Some book titles were so desperate that she had to adopt them. If someone were to appreciate them, it would be her. Yet, after taking the chosen books home, she'd rarely read them. Probably the occasional random pick, possibly 2008's best seller. She never really understood why she had this need to have books. Maybe some part of her wanted a rare guest to think that she was well cultured, or maybe she was just compensating for something she lacked just like the rest of us. So there they stayed, at least that was the case for most of them. Adventures that this reluctant traveler had no intention of experiencing.
where's that frying pan?