Where My Money Goes

These are the aisles, smelling like the sarcophagus of an old story, where I waste money on books. I say waste, a word not created by myself but by those who are not me and who do not know me when they pass narrowly by. It is a word that implies the imprudence of spending, such as by wasting money on books that might be used for the emergency room bill that is many months late now and has been sold to a collection group called First-American. To do this is considered imprudent, also their word. But these words, these which smell like wind-worn centuries, they are secretly also new, newer than these other words, and they are my words, in the space that separates each from its meaning.