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Although large companies continue to have an advantage, in Cyberspace small publishers can put up very competitive marketing efforts. We think that paper books will be around for a while, because using them is habitual. Many readers like the feel of paper, and the 'heft' of a book held in the hands or carried in a purse or backpack.
There, with his backpack, he wandered the streets of downtown San Diego, ecstatic to be a pedestrian in this great cosmopolitan medley and to see all signs in English.
She put her sketch book, her pencils, and her CD player into a backpack and waved goodbye. The next day he gave her four poems, handwritten on heavy stock that he bought in the art store next to the coffee shop. "Awesome," she said, putting them carefully in her pack. "I'm starting a novel," he said. "I could never write a book." "Do you live around here?"
When I was sitting in the coupé, the gentleman opposite me said: "Nobody can step on your toes." I said: "How so?" The gentleman said: "You have no legs." I said: "Is it noticeable?" The gentleman said: "Of course." I took my legs out of my backpack. I had wrapped them in tissue paper. And taken them with me as a memento. The gentleman said: "What is that?" I said: "my legs."
I was doing a little of both when, a minute or so later, Atmananda asked Sal to wait outside. "You've got to admit, kid," Atmananda said to me. "We have a good time here." I glanced in the direction of my backpack. Atmananda made a fist and shut his eyes. "Watch out!" cried my rational side. But he seemed sincere and vulnerable, and I found myself gazing at him. "Contemplate mountains not him!"
My plan was to hitchhike that night to Palomar Mountain. I stuffed some gear in my backpack, which I kept hidden in the closet. I was ready. The sun was starting to set. "It's okay, man," I thought, hugging myself. I was frightened. Suddenly the bell rang. I remained in my room. Atmananda answered the door. It was Sal. I heard Atmananda shout, "Salitos, take out the hot sauce!" "Yowwwww!"
"Anyway, I can't live without your sandwiches. How about turkey, today?" He stowed the sandwich in a small army surplus backpack that he'd bought after his first week in town. "What are you going to do today?" "I don't know," Patrick said. "Go to the library, I guess. I'm reading a great book on mathematics." "There's supposed to be a party this weekend, Saturday, on the mountain.
And so, assuming that all was not destined and man had choice about all matters, he had chosen to check into this guest house in the center of Nongkai instead of going straight into Vientiane. To some degree it had been because of the weight of the backpack. It had become increasingly heavy against his shoulders with every kilometer of that long walk. Confusion also had had its bearing.
Sang Huin's backpack felt increasingly heavy and so he obtained a motel room in "Centro" T.J. It had a barren mattress without sheets or blankets. The window was nailed shut and there was no ventilation outside of what came around the cracks of the door and a draft that swept through a crack in the wall. There was no dresser and no furniture at all beyond a wooden chair.
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