Alyson

It’s like I thought these books would disintegrate into knowledge that I could absorb through my fingertips; a highly contagious force that only I could interact with because I had bought the book. (Well, my dad had bought it.)

I had a sad dream—a rarity in that it wasn’t an extreme on the spectrum of joyous and horrific—that my 18th birthday was sucking it up, but I found a gift shop. Inside, on the biggest shelf, every book from my Amazon shopping cart was confidently awaiting me. It’s like I thought these books would be my friends.

Under siege of viewbooks from Pratt Institute and Columbia University, we are. I need their magic now, need it fast. It’s a shame to be stuck in such a precarious situation with titles such as The Oil Painter’s Bible and an alcohol-stained copy of July’s Poetry magazine (my former roommate’s doing). For now, I’ll leave them be. ♦