Just as there are certain people I shouldn't be allowed out in public with, I should never be allowed where books are present. At least not without strict supervision. My intent to checkout one, maybe two, blossomed into five.
Carrying them back my arm hurt. It reminded me of a boy I knew in highschool. He had seven multi-book classes in a row most days, and had to carry them in a messanger bag plus a duffel. At one point after he graduated I got word that he committed suicide. I don't know if it's true. But I have to wonder. Mostly, I wonder if just before he made his exit he was annoyed he spent all that energy carrying around his textbooks.
And thusly, sitting on my bench (beam) avoiding irritation (rusted rebar) I thought of him. As I was sitting a taxi drove past. Most likely dropping off a passenger. Then, it circled the building. Most likely to pick me up. I was tempted to pull a bit of 'going my way?'. But I had no money in my pre-paycheck state, and sitting  four walking minutes from my current futon living-quarters. It seemed more silly than entertaining.
Living on a futon gives me all kinds of ideas. Mostly delusions about my drifting rouge status. In reality I could probably convince my parents to accept me back into my semi-home and live out my summer there. Instead, I live on couches and for a short time, in a garage. Though at the moment I have graduated to living room. And if I had a car I could do my post-grad studies in having an actual room. Had to turn down the offer. Couldn't afford the lab fees.