I still remember the store, I still remember the book. It's been over two decades, but I still remember. Now, after all these years, the doors will finally shut.
Walk with me a moment, if you would. Indulge a tired man a few reminisces. Forgive me if I overstay my visit to the past. It's owed, owed more than I can rightly say, and it pains me that this is all I have to offer as eulogy.
"Writing is easy", goes the old saw, "you just stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead." I've on occasion wondered just exactly how the word processor has affected the act of writing. Has it made it better, worse, the same? I can't entirely fathom people today who still use a typewriter or longhand for extended composition, but they exist. Most of the great works of Western literature were composed with a pen or a typewriter, which when you look at something novel sized makes it even more impressive. Not only did someone write that, it was with tools that seem almost singularly designed to frustrate getting thoughts from the mind to the page.
