My beloved books, in whose words and
stories, I hide for hours amongst dearest friends. I know you intimately, the
black, the white, the in between. I have always gained strength and inspiration
and courage from your pages. I cry, hot, sad tears over your protagonists,
locked into the words as they are, I laugh loudly and suddenly at the humor of
writers, wise to the absurdity of the advent of existence, startling my children and my pets. I shake my head in
disgust at lovely characters doing ridiculous, broken things, and I so often
accidentally scallop your pages in the bathtub...There is little better then
the act of ignoring my phone, and the chaos of the outside, for the luxury of a
pure, undiluted read...
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