Light rain fell on the sidewalks of Westwood. I commandeered the sinking boat down the jagged cement streets, but parking was nowhere to be found. Thus forced away from my destination by honks and a screeching blond-haired twig, I settled for a spot two blocks away. It was a fine spot, if I do say, and it proved quite receptive to my receptacle, which I deftly maneuvered inward between two towering steel monoliths, swung my leg over, and finished by inserting a quarter into a slot.
With this in mind, I strolled down to my destination with my heavy burden, but they wouldn't accept what I had to offer. "None of these books will be used next quarter," said the shopkeeper. A shorter man, very nice allocation of facial hair, looked Middle Eastern with the twinge of boredom.
Books are the only physical reminder of the years I've spent here, but they have become the heaviest, most burdensome things I own. In the past I've felt indebted to them, to a degree at least that halted my hand from selling them like I had sold my furniture. Those times seem so far behind me now, that I am left with a box of eulogies, and I find myself making increasingly concerted efforts to bury these a pawn shop.
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