In a book I recently read, a man was looking for a lost friend in a flophouse.
The kind of place where broken people live in single rooms with bare lightbulbs, hot plates, and no toilet, while clinging desperately to life for no discernible reason.
His theory was that you can look into each room and find a single clue to that person's downfall. The addiction that robbed each of his dignity. A crackpipe. An empty bottle of rotgut whiskey.
He opened a door to see a pile of books. And said "Ah, the worst addiction of all. Reading."
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