Books upstairs.

Walked all over Dublin today. It was post drizzling, wind was cold, sun was nowhere to be seen.

But who cares about the freakin' weather. This is what I wanted to write about.

God Almighty, I was crossing the street when I saw a small handwritten sign that says "Books upstairs". Upstairs? Books upstairs? What stairs is this? What happened to downstairs? Is it a shop? Is it a pawn shop? Why is the sign handwritten? Is it a secret place where book readers of Dublin go and meet every 5 years to exchange knowledge? Obviousfuckingly I had to find out.

And it was one of the best book shops I've been to all my life.

Fuck that. It's the only amazing book store I've been to.

None of those ridiculous gloss and attraction of an Eason or MPH or Waterstone or a fuckin' Kinokuniya. A book shop that only sells books. No extra rubbish like children's toys, snacks and Twilight books.

The wooden floors creak when I step on them and the lopsided shelves touched the ceiling and they're cramped with books and it felt like a wave of books would tumble down on me any minute and I would bleed out from a million paper cuts but I wouldn't mind because I would then die a happy person.

And the old man that owns the shop is such a sweet old fella. When I wanted to pay for my books, he was talking with a friend about James Joyce. He told me "We love James Joyce here. Have you heard of him?" I spluttered out some incoherent words and he smiled and handed me Ulysses.

But most importantly, it was quiet. To me a book shop needs to be quiet. Not complete and utter silence, just a nice comfortable silence. Music is acceptable only if it's classical. No noisy annoying kids running around, no stupid giggling girls, no loud obnoxious workers.

Now I'm incredibly tired and (still) sleep deprived, but I felt like I had to write this down. That book shop. Goddamnit that book shop.