The schlubby looking guy in the white button down and black velvet yarmulke takes a highlighter to his book, painting slabs of pure text fluorescent yellow. It's a beautiful, red leather bound book, thick gold-edged pages with glossy black Hebrew letters, and here's this guy, just highlighting away like it's some kind of high school American History textbook.
I don't like writing in books anyway, but something about this guy treating his book like it's just a bunch of words on paper really bugs me, and I'm not sure why.
The tall, elegantly dressed women sitting next to him chatting in (what sounds to me like) Catalan ignore him, and he them, as he continues to graffiti meaning into his book, marking his territory of thought in pee yellow highlights, annotating his book into just another thing, like a yarmulke's just some kind of hat, just another thing to put on your head.
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