today at work i leaned in to bury my nose in the smell of a book, not to satiate a love of book smells, but because it smelled of pine straw twirled and crushed about the fingers on a golden rust hued sun-warmed day. then i must've spent thirty minutes accidentally reading a book on robert kennedy and the death of american idealism and everything felt rotten with hope and heartbreak and violence and change. it's hard letting some books pass quickly through my hands; i keep a small notebook at my side and constantly jot down names and titles and ideas. a few weeks ago working on 505 fields in our bibliographic records i began to fall in love with chapter titles and thought of using them somehow and a list began to grow and grow. a lovely few from a collection of many:

Growing like topsy
I like talkers better than beauties
Jane Austen faints
Holding hands for safety
The man who couldn't grow a beard
What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence
Enter a soldier. Later: enter another
Airplane : or, how he talked to himself as if reciting poetry
Shelley's heart and Pepys's lobsters
A past to do justice to the present
Woman who was a red deer dressed for the deer dance
In solidarity with the almond trees
A charming gift for false intimacy
What we ate that day after church
A relationship of overlapping conversations
My reply to the general
How to talk to girls at parties
Goodbye to all that
"It's terrible" or "It's fine"
A charming gift for false intimacy

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