Today, a guy whose name I know who works at B&N spent half an hour looking for a book, and eventually found it, when all I knew about it was that it was non-ficition, had a lot of blue-grey hue to it, was non-fiction, by a man, and about a guy who spent [what I thought was] a summer with [a writer I thought was] Jack Kerouac. I was wrong in two accounts, “a summer” = book tour, “Kerouac” = David Foster Wallace. But he found it, even after I walked away. He walked up to me and handed it to me. I can see why some people are religious.
"I celebrate myself, and sing myself, / And what I assume you shall assume / For ever atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.” - Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself,” Leaves of Grass
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