I have never spent a grand and a half on books in the space of two days. That has always been the luxury of other people. Five books for me for a thousand bucks: I'd expected more. Strange that I'm satisfied. Considering, too, that I didn't find a single one of the three books I'd set out to buy: Nausea, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and any anthology (not Letters to a Young Poet) by Rilke. Find me the Rilke somebody, I'm going mad.

Half a grand and some spent on books for other people. Here's something: I love inscriptions in books. If ever you buy me a book, write inside it please. There's nothing nicer. And whats nicest is when you open a second hand book and find an inscription from a stranger to a stranger. A story, and a hint of one.

You see, I'm scared no one
here will look for me again.
 –Rainer Maria Rilke

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Author: Kirtana K

I paint and make music and blog like a maniac. These days I try to run. But I have chicken legs and lungs the size of two-rupee balloons. I fail. I like pajamas and striped socks and books that read like song and songs that sound like poetry and strangers who read this page. And Maggi when I'm sick or cold or sad or celebrating. They'll find noodles in my veins if ever they cut me open. And potatoes. And maybe a tiny bit of whiskey. I'll be an Unidentified Living Object and they'll put my insides on display. It will be crazy. It will be awesome. It will.

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