*Is carefully reordering the 'H' shelves (which have now moved next to the 'X/Y/Z' section) muttering under his breath.*
Hemingway, Hemingway, where the fuck... ahha!
*flips his cassette of Houses Of The Holy over, humming along softly as he goes back to writing poems instead of packing like he's been meant to be doing that morning; technically, he's been served an eviction notice for failure to pay rent and has to be out by the end of the week*
*the little he has moved in the apartment has stirred up a lot of dust, and after a few minutes, decides that he needs fresh air to concentrate on these poems. The packing will get done eventually, right?*
*grabs a jacket, his keys, and tucks his notebook under his arm before heading out and walking aimlessly*