Cinco Pesos

When I go out, I go look for books to add to my small collection. I was looking for the usual authors. BestSeller, apparently had a wide selection. It was a nice experience: again, surprisingly disappointing. I found books that are worth spending various afternoons cooped up in some place to get lost in the pages. It was disappointing since I had to work extra hard to get those books but are definitely good finds.

One page was P605. It stings thinking about it, depressing to the point that I'm tempted to go on pirate mode to find an ebook substitute. I wanted to buy it. It was begging me to buy it. It was about a make believe journalist chilling by the beaches of an underground gangster's paradise out in the open. Or at least it was what the plot was, for all I think it was from true accounts; only that the author was neck deep in booze, controlled substance and with his one leg in a grave for nosy people. I'd imagine he had a near cut throat moment during his young writing phase.

P405 was on the label of the other one. I thought "Why not P400 flat?" It was a weird question. It was written by a dead morally charged humanist/humorist. He's dead now. A flight of stairs took his life. His Pall Malls had failed to honor his contract for a "classy suicide." It broke my heart.

It broke my heart further to leave the place. Oh well, so it goes.