The sad thing about living in my apartment in the city is that my bookshelf space is infinitely smaller. I had two tiny white shelves (now pressed into service as clothes) before S. sold me his Expedit (which is full). Although I shouldn’t’ve bought all of these books home after my latest sojourn to my parents’, I couldn’t resist. All of the history books are in case I try to start writing my novel again. I’m hoping I can do it.