Last night in my dream I was posting a blog entry that went on and on filling an infinite amount of pages.
In order to stop that stream of consciousness I had to tell myself it was all just a dream and woke up. Exhausted.
I do not recollect the subject matter otherwise I would have had an endless source to utilize for the real blog.
Nonetheless, the books themselves and the location of the store offer an infinite amount of stories and the one I am sharing today belongs to the horror section ( Lovecraft, Koontz, King....)and it is called:
Dreams of terror and death ( borrowed from the master of terror, Lovecraft).
Once upon a day, yesterday, a curious but cautious bookseller, me, made a house call (I went to somebody's house to hopefully purchase some good books).
As I was running through the inventory's titles trying to communicate coolness and keeping the eager espression out of my eyes, I was also over hearing the conversation that the owner of the books was having with her lady friend and this is what I have heard:
I am now down to cookbook number 200; I cut the pages, scan them on my computer and throw the books away...
I suddenly found my spine under the grip of an icy fist that wrapped its grasp around it tighter and tighter. My breathing drastically shortened to the point where I started feeling light headed and ready to pass out. Fortunately I managed to pull myself together, suck the tears back into the eyes' tear pockets and just uttered a little shriek.
The life of a bookseller is sometimes visited by nightmares from which you wish you could wake yourself up from.
However,our loyal friend Memory, will turn this experience into a faded dream to be told around the camp fire, under a starry sky, with a good book waiting in the tent.