sitting in the dusty corners, sifting through the genres, avid and voracious readers of lugubrious paper-backs which narrate the plots of self-pity and regret.
this is us,
losing our sense of time in there, like undergrounds creatures fascinated with the scent and sight of ground, ignoring the less conspicuous collection of sanguine and rhythmic biographies.
we are stubborn readers in the library of memories reading the wrong genres over and over...
We always enter the library of memories, and stick to the particular genre that brings us pain. Sad stories sell faster than happier ones.