I'm sitting at a Border's bookstore in north Atlanta. I'm assuming that they keep raw meat around here somewhere because I'm getting frost bite on my fingers trying to type. Border's has a lot of books; a lot more than Barnes & Noble or Books-A-Million. I just say that because they have more Hunter S. Thompson books than just Hey Rube and Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. They're so expensive though. I don't particularly want to pay $17 for a Thompson book that I could find at a random mom & pop store for $3.

There are two African American construction workers across the street sitting in lawn chairs with beer. One watches every car pass by. The other just slurps at his beer and rests his head back trying to relax in the hot morning sun.

Atlanta is much more beautiful than Nashville - especially at night. The building's lights have more personality and uniqueness to them.

One of the construction workers gets up, moves a 2x4 behind his chair and yells to someone across the street. They wave and go about their owns lives again.

I'm seriously thinking someone that works here is from Alaska and they only turn up the A/C so high to make them feel more at home.

Everyone is on their laptops. Paying six bucks an hour to access that little thing Al Gore likes to call his internet.

I bought a journal. A book journal. I write down what books I want to read and cross them off as I go. I'll be able to put most of the books in my bookshelf down, with the exception of most of my Bukowski books and Chuck Klosterman novels.

Good ol' Charles Bukowski. He was a hard working man when he wanted to be. Other times he was just a misogynistic drunk. But sometimes good poetry comes in the strangest places.

Maybe a construction worker has written a book of poetry.

I should look that up.