THIS SHIP HAS SUNK

bookshelfporn:

walkwhilereading:

Book market in a church in Copenhagen. 

[via]

I always used to walk down Haverton Way with my father as a boy, down Haverton to the old, red brick thrift bookstore that was located on the corner. I’m able to remember the roughness of my father’s hands. I used to glide my thumb across his at-the-time seemingly overbearing thumbnail - I always really liked the way that felt.  I can remember him lifting me up and bringing me close to his neck, my soft cheeks rubbing against his rugged, unshaven cheeks and neck. He always had this scent about him.. cigarettes and home. My father used to go through the numerous racks and shelves and carts of used books, flipping through the pages of almost every single one; yet he only bought about two books every month. My father used to buy me children books occasionally, the kind with pictures of farm animals and comical characters, and he’d read them to me in his brown recliner, stained with coffee and damaged with cigarette burns. I see my father in that chair, reading his used books, smoking his Marlboros, and drinking a cup of coffee. I’m not around my father anymore, I haven’t seen the chair in some months.