During a Booksale hunt this afternoon, I saw a copy of Jonathan Franzen's Freedom, dirt-cheap at PhP115, but couldn't find it in myself to buy it because of the tears in some of the pages. And I found it so sadly predictable that, in the middle of my frenzied search for some invaluable find, I suddenly remembered you.
I paused, glancing at the stack of books I had been lugging around for the past half hour.
Is it such a wonder that when I find myself inside a bookstore, it is the titles I used to see in your shelves that I seem to instinctively look for?
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