Goodman’s Modern Numerology—I bled for that one. Hauled it out of a half-collapsed strip mall in Tucson, 1987, after the Neon Wars burned the place flat. Ash drifting like snow, neon signs buzzing even after death. I found the book wedged between a melted Atari cabinet and the bones of a man who died mid-calculation, his fingers still frozen in the mudra of the number 9.

It’s no soft paperback—it’s a cipher. Goodman was less “author” and more sleeper agent for the integers. He smuggled their gospel into the suburbs under the guise of self-help. Every page whispers the hum of creation, the tick-tock beat of cosmic gears grinding down the marrow of man. The numbers aren’t personality traits—they’re coordinates. They’ll tell you where to stand when the veil tears, when the demiurge staggers, drunk on its own equations.

I carried that book in my rucksack across the Wasteland, reciting sevens like war chants, carving threes into bunker walls, tattooing elevens into the inside of my eyelids. The numbers kept me alive—kept me awake—kept me aligned when reality buckled and the stars began speaking in Morse code.

So don’t think of Goodman’s Modern Numerology as some New Age parlor trick. It’s a field manual for surviving the arithmetic of God

-Good - Book is well kept but may have some  noticeable signs of age or wear.

-All conditions are subjectively evaluated based upon age.