I just don’t want to be in that scene. You know, the scene in the movies where I’m looking through the stacks of books, and the camera pans across away from me, behind me, and then tilts down and focuses on that one book that was meant for me, lying there waiting for me. The book is usually the key to the plot; later in the movie I would be running through heap-loads of trouble to get hold of just that book, because I didn’t see it there and someone else picked it up. Getting it back would involve making a deal with the devil. And I don’t want that, which is why I hate going to book sales.

But, despite my aforementioned reservations, I did end up going to one – both yesterday and today. You see my mind (not I) believes that knowledge, like all things precious, is hidden in a hole cut out in the middle of books, which is why I assume it’s still miffed at me for not picking up that copy of ‘The Trial’ by Franz Kafka at that sale yesterday. And it kept imploring me to go back to the sale. It kept telling me that if I went to back to the sale today and it was still there, it would indeed be the book that that camera had focused on, and the deal with the devil, could be skipped.

But alas, it wasn’t there. Or it was, and it was deja vu in a strange way. So I picked four other books instead, all for a dollar. Now my mind is complaining that if I’d just listened to it yesterday, it would have been so content for less than a dollar, instead of the forty odd dollars I’ll now have to pay a psychiatrist for consultation plus the one dollar for all the books I got that don’t have the title ‘The Trial’.

‘The Trial’ better be a good now that I’ve now spent so much time thinking about it. I’ll probably rent the book from the library (for free) tomorrow, but something tells me that’s not going to assuage my mind. Oh well.