Last night, I tucked my pillow between the cold wall and my aching back, curled under covers and with one hand in a package of roasted pistachio nuts, was lost among the lines of Amin Maalouf's "Le Periple De Baldassare" when my hands touched a slight bump on the back cover of the book. Dad and I get books from a bouquiniste (ie a wholesale second-hand bookseller) nearby where you rent a second-hand book for relatively a small fee and to tell you the truth, I somehow feel guilty every time I do so. Still, it is not my fault that the books in Ponderland are above average expensive and that in this financial state we are in, I cannot spend that much money on the things I want to read... that and reading is an important part of my life currently. Anyway, I feel guilty because I am well aware of the time, dedication and effort the author put into it so yes I'm sabotaging their sale... I will pay back by the truth that if I turn a professional one day the same can happen to my work, too.