Kicked out of library
Free time? It’s all borrowed, on loan from God. Amen. Get reckless.
Dostoevsky and Tolstoy and A talking Cat and I’m tense and nervous and I… can’t relax.
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Vintage and unopened packs - or cartons for the heavy chiefers - of 1980’s Camels, Winstons, REALs, Madisons, and others.
Free shipping and first choice for those in the $5 substack.
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With empty pockets and a ride on hand
It never matters when your making plans
There are so many flat surfaces in the public library that we couldn’t help ourselves. Really. The temptation was too strong.
Maria’s cat and I went to check out some books for.. personal reasons.
Okay in full transparency, there’s an ongoing debate between us.
She believes Tolstoy over Dostoevsky which is incorrect.
And it’s worse because being half demon she was around when they walked the Earth. She mentioned seeing Dostoevsky during the Winter of 1873 in St Petersburg soon after he finished Demons, but prior to publishing and claims he was “heavy souled, deep set eyes,” and "asked her “where’s the nearest shop for bread.”
Believing her because they both battled with -too real- questions such as how a just God could allow children suffering and thoughts of this nature that are exhausting for the brain of man.
But Dostoevsky. He saw the world in possibility of extremes. Hey, brother, it’s a wild world right? You might just leave the gym, get in your car, crank it and ignite an explosion.
He’s a realist unbound by reality. Magnifies it to extremes, stretches it until it nearly snaps. Fictionalized non fiction and the answers to your questions are riddled under what may or may not be sane.
“Right or wrong, it's very pleasant to break something from time to time.”
He walks in a way many should. Play with reality, rip things to shreds, start a fire no matter how small, vocalize your hottest takes, laugh at funerals, do the Dougie in the convenient store parking lot with some old dude he looks 56 but says he’s 31 and have a cigarillo in his ear.
Flat surface. Books. Public library is drowning in them and the smell of old paper has us both full of madness. We couldn’t help ourselves. Looking back I see this is where we went wrong. But making eye contact, shrugging a little, and moving without words, Marias cat breaks out the bag of cocaine and spreads in across the surface of The Death of Ivan Ilyich and a spare razor gets pulled out of her fur and I’m not imaging this and the next thing I know it’s all a blur and a security guard is holding her by the furry neck and me by the shoulder and shoving me into the parking lot yelling outlandish things such as
“there are kids here!”
“delinquents! I should call the cops!”
“don’t ever show your faces here again!”
Then we’re in the car. Electric. I’m laughing, almost crying, she’s hissing but I think it’s a joyous thing. Then the bluetooth connects, The Rolling Stones Gimme Shelter plays and what’s next, we have to move! Go!
There’s a world of options. A list of places to go.
“The pool hall? The batting cage? Whole foods to hit on wino moms? The arcade? The bowling alley is only $20 for two hours? WE CAN GO ANYWHERE!”
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