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.