I don't even enjoy reading.

I never have.

Yet I buy a book a week,

Just to see people like June.

An artist friend of mine recommended some book for me to look at, Kahlo, I think. 

A bell tingles on the door and the smell of paper and candles fills my nose. I walk slowly down the isle of books to take in the mass of books on the tall shelves. The squeak of my wet boots on the dark tile is the only noise in the store. 

Somehow I've never liked reading, but the idea of thousands of books in this store, with millions of words, fill the shelves. 

I thumb through the incredibly small arts section, stopping on a Degas classic.