kanda district, tokyo-

a million stories, none worth discovering, possibly even my own! swept up in a late afternoon hysteria of mass consumerism. what does it all really mean, who is it all really for?
somehow i am hungrier than when i went into that indian place. how is that possible? i wanted to wreak havoc upon the gents, but decided to check my angelino tendencies at the door.
truly it was books i was after and books i shall have! a shop called out to me through the fray and i heeded the call. a liberated copy of treasure island from a second-hand dealer pressed tightly in hand. i was most happy to have a childhood friend along for the ride.
ah, it is strange what the mind choses to remember and forget. has it been that long? the solace of words, the communion of writer and reader, could anything be more sacred? as i ride the rails back to my little box, the words leap off the page. i am not a child any longer, but my sense of adventure surely has not dulled with the passing of time. part of me needed to find something recognizable, just for now. maybe it's enough to recollect what was and appreciate what is.
a million stories swirling about tonight, but only one will suit me.